


The Walkers

by raiyana



Series: The Skin-Changer Chronicles [3]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Angst and Feels, Angst with a Happy Ending, Death from Old Age, Elements of Rohirric mythos, Exploring the wider world of Tolkien's Middle-Earth, F/M, Old English/Old Norse languages used, Orcs, Rohan, Skinwalker, Why is azog called the defiler?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-05
Updated: 2017-09-18
Packaged: 2018-12-11 14:54:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 29,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11716668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raiyana/pseuds/raiyana
Summary: Your world was once one of wild beauty and fierce play, freedom and family... but everything changed when the Orcs came down from the North.Azog - the Defiler - had come, his war-bands slaughtering those they did not enslave.Taking you as his personal slave, the Pale Orc changed your life with one wave of his hand.This is your story.Reccung of þá aníehstan gengende déormenn





	1. Captured

“Ullrae!” The scream is the last time you hear your mother’s voice, your name the last thing to pass her lips before the Orc’s jagged blade steals her life. The roar of anger as your father throws himself into the fight, shifting into a massive lynx in mid-air and slashing any and all throats he can, before he too is cut down. You can do nothing but watch, bound by some sort of evil that stops you from shifting, stops you from _helping_ , keeps you still and only able to watch in horror as your family is slaughtered.

 

* * *

 

Later, you will not remember the long journey to the Orc stronghold, lost in a fog of numbness, grieving everyone you have ever known. Your sister’s new-born litter torn to shreds, their parents forced to watch before they were mercifully killed off too. Your brother, dead as he tried to crawl towards you, fury burning in the one eye he had left. The Orc had laughed, you heard, made you watch as every last remnant of life left his amber eyes. The images continue; an unending cycle of grief and horror and impotent fury. Your heart burns. Your eyes remain dry, and you wonder how you cannot even cry for what you have lost, feeling somehow unclean for it, as though your reactions mean that you did not love them all.

You try not to wonder why you alone have been spared, seeing none of your particular clan among the other Skinwalkers in chains around you. You shy away from guessing at the answer, knowing it can only be more horror. The shackles that wrap around your ankles are cold, cold as snow, and force you to walk slowly. Other Walkers have their hands bound, you see, and feel envious. Lynxes are meant to run free, to dance under the moon, to jump and climb with ease, even in human form. You think they must be magic. You _know_ , deep in your bones, that you could shift and slip out of the restraints with little trouble, your paws far more bendable than your human appendages. You might not survive the feat, you know, but you would not care. Better to die free. At most, the Orcs – whose smell you would do _anything_ to forget, feeling that it clings to your skin and your hair – would simply kill you for it, but you would take some of the scum with you. You try, in a wild moment of recklessness, you _try_ ; harder than you’ve ever tried before, but your other side does not come, does not take the place of your skin with its fur.

 

The day you begin to worry if the lynx in you has died too is the day that brings you closest to breaking.

 

* * *

 

The Stronghold is dirty, grimy, unclean, just like the filth that inhabits it. You see people who must be Walkers put to work, and they are the lucky ones, you realise. Far below, in the depths of the earth, you are told, they’ve enslaved the bigger Walkers, the bears, the horses, who work the mines and bring up the ore that the Orcs make into their crude weapons of torture and death. It is not uncommon for ‘accidents’ to occur down there, you hear, and are told you should praise yourself for being too small for that work.

You do not.

You might be smaller – you’re not even fully grown yet – but you are still faster and stronger than a mortal Man, more graceful too. You move with the surety of the big cat whose skin is also yours, your eyes large and capable of hunting in the dark. Plans swirl in your mind, plans for escape, for death if escape is not possible, but they will not come to fruition for years. You are watched too closely.

* * *

 

The Orc leader is called Azog, though the prisoners have named him the Defiler, for deeds you do not dare ask about. Everyone here has dead eyes, you know, just as you do, eyes that cannot even long for the freedom of the hunt anymore, hearts that cannot remember the scent of prey or the feeling of long grass tickling as you prowled through it, being taught the game by your mother and aunts, your sisters showing off for the young lads.

 

The Defiler seems to like you, dressing you in what is presumably fine clothes for an Orc and having you serve him wine. Then he barks something at you in his own tongue, words that are more like snarls than words and you do not understand. You will learn. The first night, you dance. You dance, so that you might avoid the lick of the whip across the back of your legs, the shackle around your ankle attached to his throne with a long chain. You dance, hearing the tinkle of metal on metal with every move. Azog stares. You would swear he takes pleasure in it, but you do not dare finish the thought.

That night, he chains you to a post in what you presume is his room until he disappears through another door that you cannot reach for the chain. You cannot pry open the shackle, spending hours driving yourself to exhaustion to learn that, and there is little enough in the room to help you make an attempt for freedom. There is a platter of bread, which looks maggoty. You eat it anyway. A small pile of straw gives the illusion of comfort from the cold stone floor, but you do not dare sleep. The water in the bowl seems clear, and you gulp it greedily. You wait.

 

* * *

 

The first night became many nights. Always, you are left in this room, though not always fed, always accompanied by snarls you begin to recognise as orders – or maybe you just infer their meaning from what happens until you comply with his dark wishes. You would pity those who are brought to him in cages, but there is no room for pity in this place. They always die eventually, anyway, their souls released where you cannot follow.

The bears are the worst to watch, you find, to see such powerful beings brought to the very edge. Azog is getting better. He knows now, knows when to stop, how to extend his sadistic fun by leaving his entertainment on the cusp of life until the next day or the next. If they slip away in the night, you are punished. It takes you a long time to realise that, a lot of scars before you begin to hate those people, a feeling that frightens you with its intensity.

 

* * *

 

You do not know how Orcs reproduce – it is odd that you can still call yourself untouched, but you’ve decided never to think about such things – but the first time you see the small Orc, you stare. Azog says something, pointing to you, and the little one nods with an evil grin. You have the odd feeling it is his son.

Bolg.

 

The little orc has grown larger, as tall as his father and as pale. You heard that Orcs were Elves once, twisted by evil and corrupted by darkness, and, in Azog and Bolg, you can _see_ it.

 

* * *

 

You do not know how many years it has been, but the Walkers are all gone. You have heard stories of fantastical escapes over the years, but they have all been fairy stories to you, unsubstantiated by anything but rumour and often debunked by the hunters who bring back the corpse of those who flee. You have seen enough of those corpses.

You still yearn to escape.

 

The day you get the chance – the only chance – it is delivered in the guise of Bolg. Impatient, he strikes your chain off, instead dragging you by the hair. But he forgets that he habitually carries knives at his waist and stealing one is a matter of timing alone.

You do not miss the long locks.

 

* * *

 

 

You know the hunters will follow, will be ordered to catch Azog’s pet Walker, and you run. You run as a human, because you must, because the shackle still won’t let you shift – you try not to worry whether you will have forgotten how when it is eventually removed.

The hunters ride warg, those aberrations born of the Wolf-Clan being forced to breed with actual wolves. The beasts are intelligent, and born of rage, they are mean and slaver to fill the desires of their dark masters.

The arrows that pierce your flesh are made from dark jagged metal, biting into your back, your side.

You keep running.

Long ago, it was a pact you made with yourself, with the side of you that you fear died on that horrible day in the mountains. Run, and die running, die _free_. Now, it becomes a mantra, die free, die free, die free, repeating in time with your heart beating, your lungs wheezing.

 

* * *

 

The roar is distant, and you feel like you should recognize it somehow, but you can do nothing but run, run in the fog of exhaustion and pain, aware that death is coming for you; swifter with each step you take. Your blood stains the ground; an easy trail to follow, though you have tried to obscure it in every body of water you come across. You stumble.

There is only darkness and the last smell of grass in your nose.

 

* * *

 

 

“Hush, wild thing,” a voice says, slow and deep, deep like you think you remember your father’s was. The snippet of memory wraps itself around the voice, a dreamy quality entering your fog as warm hands care for the numerous wounds you have sustained. The darkness beckons.

 

* * *

 

 

You wake slowly, feeling surprisingly comfortable. You hardly dare open your eyes, instead letting the feeling of softness against your skin suffuse your entire being. You stretch, surprised by the lack of pain. The shackle is still a dead weight around your ankle, and your eyes snap open fearfully.

Wood.

Lots of wood.

Most of it is carved, craftmanship that would be beyond an Orc. Your heart slows as you stare around the room. The soft woollen blanket you are covered by has been stitched with a motif of leaves. The bedposts are carved to resemble bears. You can see a game board, with more bear-shaped pieces on one end, the blocks on the other end only half finished. The room is odd, though it takes you a while to realise why. Everything would fit you. The tables are not ridiculously small, which they would be if this place was owned by a Man. You breathe deeply.

The scent is familiar, though hard to place, but eventually you decide what it must be. Bear. Bear-Walker, to be precise. The tears surprise you, but they are welcome relief. You almost do not notice the hand that lands on your shoulder, but find yourself launching from the bed, wrapping your arms and legs around his body like you never want to let go as you sob into his shoulder, breathing in that comforting smell that is at once _wild_ and _home_. The arms that fold to embrace you are hesitant, cautious, but you squeeze harder in demand until he is holding you with all his considerable strength.

 

You’re pretty sure it has been several hours before you stop crying, hiccupping sobs at random still, but no longer wailing. You bury your nose against his skin, where his neck meets his shoulder, corded muscles moving under warm soft skin, browned by the sun. Breathing softly, you don’t even realise when you fall asleep.

 

* * *

 

You wake with a scream.

The large body in bed with you stiffens.

“Hush now, wild thing,” he murmurs, stroking the jagged hair your escape attempt created. Your eyes snap open, certain that the bear had been no more than a dream. Raising your head cautiously from where you were resting on his strong chest, you see a bushy beard, covering his strong jaw. Travelling further up, you are met by calm eyes.

“Bear,” you whisper, hoarsely, your voice croaky with disuse. Daringly, you trace a finger down his nose, and back up to brush against his long eyebrows. You feel the nervous swallow more than you see it, the rush of air lifting your perch slightly. “My bear.” You smile, for the first time in more years than you remember, feeling that the possessive pleases both of you.

“Who are you?” he asks, almost as hoarsely as you, but you know it is emotion that makes him sound so broken. “A little wild thing I found, chased by Orcs, and more than half dead. Who are you, who knows what I am?” His arms are still tightly wrapped around your body, but he allows you room to stretch. You kiss him. The kiss was simply your joy at not being alone overflowing, but you feel him tense beneath you, see the pain flash in his eyes.

“Ullrae,” you murmur, drawing back. You feel almost giddy, overwhelmed by the smell of him, the sheer _familiarity_ of it. He might not be your _kind_ , but he _is_ your kind. You drag your nose along his jaw, burying your face in the shaggy hair and breathing in his smell. “Can you take it off?” you ask, low enough that he wouldn’t have heard you if he wasn’t a Walker. You thought he was tense before, but suddenly you find yourself tossed onto your back, facing an angry growl. Your first instinct is to whimper in fear, blindly looking for the whip over his shoulder, but when you don’t see the Orc with the hated weapon you relax slightly. The bear seems to have regained his self-control when you flinched away, staring darkly at you from a chair across the room. You return his stare, neither of you blinking. When he makes no move to attack you, you dare to ask again. “Can you take it off?” you plead, almost in tears with hope, moving your leg towards him, where the shackle is still obvious. His eyes flick from your face to where your small movement made the blankets move. You had not realised that you’d used all your strength throwing yourself at him earlier, but it becomes clear when you can barely move the blanket aside. The bear’s large hand stills you, as he moves the blanket, making you realise for the first time that you are wearing one of his own shirts over the bandages. It covers your modesty, but not much more. You blush. Walkers are not generally shy, but it has been so long since you’ve been among the eyes of your own kind that his gaze makes you feel vulnerable in a way that even Azog did not manage. The bear’s warm hand wraps around your calf, sliding down until it reaches the shackle.

“This?” he asks, you nod, the tears spilling over once more.

“It stops me,” you admit, the loss of your other self as raw now as on the day you were captured, the longing to be free clear in your voice. The bear looks horrified, his hand tightening involuntarily. You realise that his own wrist is also encircled by dark iron, but it is not like yours, you know.

“I will take it off,” he says, and the vow follows you into exhausted sleep.

 

The next time you wake, you’re being lifted, carried along with the blanket. You recognize his smell and relax into his hold.

“Wake up, Ullrae,” his voice wraps around your name, a deep caress of sound, making your name sound dark and a little husky on his tongue. You blink your eyes sleepily open. You are outside, beneath the full moon and the bear is rigging up a seat at the same height as the anvil beside you. You allow him to move you, stretching your leg along the cold iron with a shiver. You are still weak. A steaming cup is handed to you, the warmth seeping into your hands. You sip at it. Warm milk with honey and spices flood your mouth, making you sigh in pleasure. You’re so lost in the food that you don’t even notice the bear’s work, the quick way he strikes off the manacle, breaking it apart until only the knowledge that it was once a shackle reveals it as such.

You close your eyes, the empty cup falling from your hands to shatter on the ground a distant sound.

Freedom.

You breathe heavily, almost scared at the thought that there might be _nothing_ to answer the call… and then you are the other you, the large cat prowling around the anvil, testing your limbs. You are weak, but not so weak that you could not hunt. Rubbing your body along the bear’s legs, you hear him chuckle at the way you mark him with your scent but he doesn’t stop you. You yawn. It’s been so long… above you, the moon shines, its glow bring back long-forgotten memories. Feeling like your Clan is with you, you break into a run, roaring happily as you shatter the night with your joy. Jumping the gate in the fence is a simple feat, and you barely hear the bear calling for you to come back. Instead, you lope off into the long grass, knowing instinctively how to move, old lessons coming back to you with the sound of your mother’s voice, the laughs of your sisters and brothers.

 

You don’t know how far you’ve gone when you catch the scent. It is an elk, a small one and your belly growls.

The kill is messy; inexperienced, but successful. The fresh meat steams in the night, blood soaking into your muzzle as you feast, gorging yourself on the warm meal.

You hear a growl. You look up, seeing the bear, but he simply stands there, watching, and so you shrug, returning to your feast.

When you feel full at last, you offer him the remains of your kill, licking yourself clean. You watch as he makes quick work of what you couldn’t finish. Instinct makes you stand to lick the blood off his fur before you turn back in the direction you think is home. The change catches you by surprise, but you’re asleep before your human self hits the grass.

 

You wake feeling stronger. Warm fur keeps the chill off your naked skin and you burrow into the bear’s side, murmuring a sleepy greeting. He growls, nosing your shoulder as he gets up. You try to follow, but your limbs have not regained their strength, leaving you to struggle weakly. The bear huffs. You glare blearily at him as he gives you what can only be called a grin. Almost despite yourself, you return it.

“I think I overdid it a little,” you admit, and the bear turns decidedly smug. You scowl. He moves back beside you, making your cheeks heat slightly at the way your smell has mingled with his during the night. He huffs again, nudging you with his nose. You groan, but surrender. When he lies down, you use the shaggy fur to help you climb onto his back. The bear carries you home through the early morning sunlight.

 

You wake to the sound of wood being chopped. The rhythmic thuds are oddly soothing as you get up, wrapping the blanket around your naked body. The shirt you had borrowed is probably either torn apart by the change or dirtied by spending a night on the ground; you think you remember it rained at one point. Walking slowly through the house, you step outside for the first time in what feels like forever, blinking blearily against the powerful sun.

“Wild thing,” the bear mumbles as a greeting, but it is fond and you relax against the doorpost, watching him chop a few more blocks.

“Bear,” you eventually say, pleased with the way your voice affects him. Moving towards him, you trail your hand down his shoulder, along the shaggy mane that follows his spine and back up to trace a scar on his arm. “Have you a name, my bear?” you ask, feeling a little foolish not to have done so before.

“Beorn.” You almost want to giggle, but it is very _him_.

“Suits you,” you whisper, leaning against his side as a spell of fatigue hits you. “Breakfast, Beorn?”

Abandoning the axe for the moment, he swings you into his arms with no greater effort and carries you into the house.

You smile against his shoulder.

 


	2. Freedom

As you grow stronger, you begin to roam farther from the house, hunting to improve your skills. Beorn usually follows, though he does not interfere in your kills until you have eaten your fill; then he finishes the rest and helps you bury the bones. At ‘home’ – you wonder sometimes at how quickly it has become home to you, even with no formal agreement between you and Beorn – you do not eat meat, living off vegetables and oat grains, milk and honey. Caring for the animals is simple, but it brings you great joy just to be able to see the sky; being around living beings that don’t smell like hate and blood is nearly euphoric.

It is a good life, though it takes you months to stop flinching away from Beorn if he reaches for you while you’re eating, to stop the ingrained habit of eating quickly in case someone takes your food away.

You speak, more words than you have spoken since your family died, more words than you thought you remembered. You are silent, working when it suits you. Beorn is a kind teacher, helping you with the things you do not know, though you are surprised at how many skills you still remember learning as a child.

You spend days as a lynx, resting on a shaded branch in one of the large trees, surveying Beorn’s gardens. The fear of pursuers remains, though Beorn tells you he slaughtered all the hunters, for he also claims there were no pale orcs among them. You know Bolg and Azog will not simply let their pet flee; you remain on guard, one ear cocked to listen for the snarl of wargs, your nose primed to catch the scent of orcs.

 

* * *

 

You’ve spent a few years with Beorn before you notice that you like watching him, watch the strength in his bodies. At first, you wonder if is a peculiar form of gratitude that makes you act so, makes you want him to notice you… as a female. It is strange to you, to feel desire. You’ve spent so many years banishing any thought of physical intimacy that this simple _want_ scares you. It takes you months to work out that you love him as more than simply a friend and Scildere – he has told you his word for what he is; a protector of the clan, even if his clan is long-dead and replaced by his animals and you – but the knowledge does not fill you with joy.

Beorn loves his mate – as he should, you recognize rationally, ignoring the snarled ‘ _mine!’_ that echoes in your head at the thought – and ever since he’s found you, he’s been filled with hope that he might not have been the only one to escape; someone else might have fled, just like you did. You try to tell him what happened to those who ran; Beorn _is_ the only one who managed, you’re fairly sure. The hunters were always happy to throw a Walker’s pelt to the floor at Azog’s feet and you watched many such pelts; determined not to give them the satisfaction of showing any response to the crushing of your hope every time they came back with another corpse. If not for Beorn discovering you, you too would have been such a corpse – or, worse, you would have survived to be chained up once more.

The worst part is that you _know_ exactly what happened to Beorn’s mate, listening to him describe her features, both woman and bear. You did not learn her name, but you met the Walker who was his mate – the mother of his child. You think Beorn knows, the way he looks at you when it finally fits in your head and you realise you hold the power to take his hope away, just like the hunters did to you, the power to kill the light in his eyes.

You flee.

You _cannot_ do that to him, you _will not_. Even if you are lying to him by keeping quiet, it is still better than telling him what happened to her, what happened to his Berveig… and her cub.

For days, you refuse to walk as a human, knowing that Beorn – even if he has learned some of your sounds as you have learned his – cannot speak with you properly in lynx form, cannot understand your growls and yips. He is worried, you know, and it makes you feel worse about the lie, though also more determined to keep the secret. You love this man, this bear, even if it is futile, even if he will never love you; take you for his own, his mate.

“You are keeping something from me, Ullrae,” he accuses quietly, on the fourth day. “You do not want to be woman, because you think I will read it in your face, so you stay lynx, hoping I will forget. I will not forget, Ullrae,” you know he won’t, know that you are at an impasse, “I saw it in your face; you met Berveig in the stronghold; you _must_ know what happened to her.” His voice breaks on her name, breaks your heart.

You do not respond, and Beorn falls silent. He spends the rest of the day sitting beneath your tree – you claimed it almost as soon as you were strong enough to climb – in utter silence. When the sun has set, he sighs, getting to his feet and walking into the house.

You leap, darting off through the gloaming.

You hunt, though your mind is whirling, bringing down a couple of rabbits and eating them quickly.

After five days, you return to the house, walking through the door in your human body, naked and knowing there are grassy stains on your skin, leaves in your hair. You do not care. Beorn looks up from the small block of wood he’s been carving and you find yourself wrapped in his arms in the next moment. You cling to him, stealing the pleasure of his scent for as long as he lets you, holding you close as he trembles.

“I thought… you left me,” he whispers hoarsely. You shake your head.

“I needed to think.”

“Please, tell me… what happened to my mate?” Beorn asks, plaintive and wistful, and your heart breaks for him.

“She is dead,” you say, cupping his face gently, letting him read the truth of that in your eyes, “one of many who were killed as entertainment. I am sorry.”

“How?” he asks, his arms suddenly lax as he sinks into his chair; the light of hope dying – just as you knew it would. You bite your lip, your eyes filling with tears for the pain in his face; the defeated posture of his body.

“I will not say,” you tell him, and you will not. It was the deal you made with yourself. You will give him the knowledge he wanted, but you will never tell him how, nor will you tell him about the cub’s fate. Stroking his cheek gently, you are unprepared for the way he flinches away from you. It hurts.

“Tell me!” he demands, gripping your arm, but you shake your head.

“You are Scildere, Beorn, but in this… let me protect you,” you ask quietly, uncowed by his darkening temper. “Let the knowledge that she died be the end of it. Do not ask me again.” Beorn does not speak.

 

Life goes on after that, as it always does, but something is different. There is anger in Beorn, a new kind; one which is aimed at you and it tears at your heart, even as it firms your resolve.

 

* * *

 

Months later, you wake up feeling strangely hot. Turning to Beorn, who has been sleeping in the same bed with you since he found you, you nose into his neck with a light whine, the male scent of him assaulting your senses and causing a flood of desire to wash over you. Rubbing yourself against the planes of his body, you writhe on the bed, seeking something you cannot name.

“Ullrae?” he whispers sleepily, wrinkling his nose lightly.

“Beorn…” you moan breathily, your tongue darting out to lap at his skin, taste him. When you lift your leg, straddling one of his hard thighs, you nearly hiss at finding the friction you _need_. Beorn’s eyes snap open, his hands wrapping tight around your upper arms as he stares at you. You moan, rubbing yourself against him as you enjoy the powerful grip, this show of dominant strength. You purr into his throat, nipping lightly at the skin. Beorn sucks in a deep breath. The next thing you know, you’re on your back, staring up at an enraged man, snarling down at you. It makes you melt with lust, rather than fear, but even as you spread your legs to cradle him, part of your mind is panicking at what is happening to you.

“You’re in heat.” Beorn says, sounding stunned. You nod, whimpering as you offer him your throat, lost in needing frenzy already. Beorn curses. He picks you up, a flash of something like pain crossing his face as you wrap your long legs around him, rubbing your aching core against him, enjoying the hardness that is all male. You want it inside you, want to be claimed, cared for, _wanted_. Mewling into his neck, every step he takes a mixture of torture and bliss, you don’t care where you’re going. When he sets you down on a pile of straw, your roll over, enjoying the grassy scent as you push yourself up on your hands and knees, looking back at him with a needy whine. Beorn’s eyes are black; you can see him straining against his trousers – you sleep naked, but Beorn had always worn linen trousers to bed. You whine again, tempting him by bowing your back, pushing your arse into the air. The air is thick with the smell of your musk.

The door slams shut, the outside latch locking you in.

 

* * *

 

It’s been three days. You’re exhausted, having succumbed to the desire to mate over and over, though you have only your own fingers to try to stop the burning. It is not enough. You have cried, and cursed, begged and screamed at Beorn, though you know he hasn’t been near the barn in three days. When it finally stops, you can’t move, too tired to even whimper when he picks you up, brings you into the kitchen to feed you a thin porridge with plenty of cream. You snarl.

“Please, Ullrae,” Beorn says, pushing the bowl towards you, “you must eat.”

You know he is right, and as soon as the first bite hits your empty stomach – there is water from a rain barrel fed into the barn, but you’ve had no mind to consider sustenance – you shovel it down, sighing in bliss when he pours you a large mug of fresh milk. You fall asleep as soon as it is finished.

 

“That was your first heat,” Beorn states when you wake up in your bed – it is his bed, but you’ve never wanted your own, preferring the safety of sleeping with Beorn. You nod.

“You have to be adult in human skin before they start,” you whisper, “but they never happened to me… I always assumed I was… broken,” you admit, thinking back to the dark years in the stronghold. You whimper. Now that it’s over, you have the capacity to feel beyond the need for a male – any male, if you’re honest, though you know you’d feel the strongest about Beorn – rutting into you. “I’m sorry,” you weep, because you are; you may want him, even now feel a frisson of lust for him, but you know Beorn does not feel for you that way. He was mated before; it’s a bond you can’t touch.

“Hush now, wild thing,” he murmurs, picking you up and letting you cry into his chest, overwhelmed by the relief that you’re not broken and the very real fear that he will send you away now. Beorn strokes your hair, petting you calmly. “Do you know how often this will happen? How soon?” he asks, his voice deep and soothing.

“3 or 4 years,” you whisper, “more if I have a cub, probably.” You feel him stiffen at that, breaking your heart as he silently dashes the hope you might have had that he would one day – maybe many years from now, but you could wait – give you _his_ cub. You’re only fertile while the heat lasts, but you’re already dreading the next one. This was torture; a different kind than the one inflicted by Azog’s whips and knives, but torture all the same. Beorn keeps petting your hair.

“Well, we have 3 years to come up with a better solution,” he mutters, but you know there isn’t one; know that he will not give you what you truly need.

 

* * *

 

 

The first time Beorn kisses you, he is angry. It was a silly row about him leaving a cupboard open and you banging your head against it, escalating until you were snarling at each other.

“Do not tell me how to act in my own home!” he growls, but you do not care to hear the warning signs. “You’re not my mate, Ullrae!”

“No, your mate is _dead_!” you scream, “and this is my home too!” It’s been two decades since Beorn saved you, made this place yours as much as his.

“Do not speak of her!” he snarls, shaking you. You snap your teeth at him. “You’ve never had love, you don’t know what I lost!”

“Berveig is dead, Beorn!” you bellow, “Let her rest! Stop using your dead mate to punish me for being alive!” Pulling at the ties of your shift, you let the fabric drop to the floor, longing to lope through the night air in your other skin. Beorn catches your arm. The kiss is a surprise, a hard meeting of mouths that suddenly gentles; Beorn’s arms wrapping around you. You mewl – surprised and pleased, but still angry – scratching your nails down his chest. Beorn pulls back, his large hands still wrapped around your arms.

“Ullrae…” he whispers, staring at you as though he is seeing right through you. “I’m sorry,” he falters, his mouth opening and closing a few times without words.

“I love, Beorn,” you mutter, all the fight leaving you. “I will never have love, you’re right, but it does not mean I do not feel it.” You turn away from him – it’s an old wound, the knowledge that he does not love you, but it still hurts – breaking free of his hold.

“Ullrae!” he calls, but you do not turn around, shifting in mid-air and running off into the night.

 

* * *

 

 

You slink back in the early hours of sunrise, knowing that Beorn is not home; his scent has gone north-east. Silently, you pack a few things, bundle them up in a way that your lynx shape can carry. With a final pat to the dogs, you leave Beorn’s home, masking your trail as you go. You don’t think he will follow, but you do it anyway; it is more useful than crying for the life you have left behind.

 

* * *

 

 

When he gives up trying to track her, Beorn returns to his cold home, hoping beyond hope that Ullrae’s golden eyes will smile at him when he walks in but knowing that she is not in the house. She’s been back while he was gone, and for a moment he feels hope that she simply left to think, that he only imagined the pain in her eyes as she spoke of loving… him. The small ember is doused as soon as he steps into the kitchen, seeing only the small piece of paper on the table.

 

> _Beorn,_
> 
> _When you read this, I will be gone. I am not coming back. I thank you for all that you have done for me, and I hope you will remember me fondly._
> 
> _I am sorry, but you are right. I have never been mated, and still I have acted as though I am yours. It was wrong of me._
> 
> _As I do not intend to return, it seems only fair that I tell you the ending of Berveig’s story, as I have so long refused to do. I do not regret keeping this knowledge to myself, for I know it will bring you only pain. For that, however, I am sorry; I have never wished harm on you._
> 
> _I first met Berveig when she was brought to Azog’s throne room; chains around her neck and shackles on her hands and feet. The orcs were jeering, though I did not know their speech then, so I cannot tell you what they called her. She was placed in a cage, after Azog’s favourite had whipped her while he called for her to change – it was one of the first commands I learned, watching him find joy in watching the shifting of bones and flesh to move from one form to another. Often, he would whip the Walkers mid-shift… their screams still echo in my head._
> 
> _Berveig’s teeth were pulled the next day. Then he removed her claws, carving open her paws and detaching them that way. Every day, he cut something else; a finger, part of an ear, a toe; small things, while he yelled taunts I did not understand, but which made her roar in fury and terror._
> 
> _It took me some time to realise why she was scared. Most of the Walkers in the cages would give up their fight, their lives, but Berveig fought every day._
> 
> _I brought her water; things the Orcs called food, I cleaned her wounds when Azog felt like it. She did not speak to me. I do not think she had much mind left to care about Azog’s servant – I would not, in her place – but she knew what I was. She stared at me with hatred at first, watching me serve him wine, feed him, follow his many commands. I did not care. To me, she was little more than my Master’s new toy, an object of amusement to him, and the longer she lived, the less pain he would inflict on me._
> 
> _One night, Azog’s torment made her pass out. I don’t know if she faked it or truly fainted, but I know she watched as I took her place as the evening’s entertainment, dancing at the end of my chain, my clothes cut off by Azog’s blade._
> 
> _In the morning, Berveig spoke to me. It was only one word, ‘walker’, but I nodded. Berveig’s mangled hand reached out to grab mine, bringing it to her belly._
> 
> _I knew, in that moment, why she fought so fiercely, and why Azog played with her so carefully._
> 
> _Berveig was carrying a cub._
> 
> _I kept my face blank, but I nodded at her, accepting the secret of the knowledge – one female to another._
> 
> _Of course, her secret did not remain so, as she grew larger, and I have my doubts it was ever a secret to begin with._
> 
> _I cannot bear to write down the many tortures they used on her while the cub grew in her belly._
> 
> _Before the birth – though not so long before it would have happened naturally – Azog grew tired of waiting. He cut the babe from her body, watched as she pleaded for her child, her son._
> 
> _I held the cub, who somehow knew to breathe, while I watched the life leave her eyes._
> 
> _His name was chosen in one of my brief conversations with her: Æristhyth, her hope for resurrection of her clan._
> 
> _I cared for him, as best I could, though I had no milk to give him. He was beautiful, fur the colour of good soil and eyes as blue as summer skies._
> 
> _Azog laughed when he took the babe from me, made me watch as he was carved to pieces._
> 
> _As I write this, my tears make the ink run, as I remember both of them once more; Berveig and Æristhyth were among the first of the many I watched die, but I… I cared for them, even before I knew her name._
> 
> _I never wanted you to have these images of the lady you love, my darling Beorn, and I hope you will one day forgive me for telling you. Perhaps you may even forgive me for staying silent until I am already too far away to answer your questions._
> 
> _I know you will be angry, but I can only say this:_
> 
> _I love you. I love you, and I would never wish to hurt you. I love you – more than I believed I could, but I accept that you do not feel the same._
> 
> _I hope that you will be well, and, please, do not hate me for keeping my secret for all these years._
> 
> _All my love,_
> 
> _Ullrae, daughter of Léona._

 


	3. Athelstan

You have run far, always heading south. For a time, you’d followed the river, but eventually you had headed in-land a bit, walking in your human body by day, passing a few farms and nodding at people you met, while running stealthily in your other skin by night.

 

* * *

 

“Hey, you there!” Someone calls, as you are passing a small farm in the early morning hours. You had wandered close to the homestead, hoping to barter for a few eggs for your breakfast; these Rohirrim people are usually quite happy to accept the strength of your arms in return for food. Looking up, you catch sight of an arm waving at you from the upper floor of a small barn. You frown, but move closer. By the smell, the owner of the arm is the only Man present on the farm; you can sense no one else moving around aside from a few horses and a cow.

“Yes?” you call. A man pokes his head out of the hay-loft.

“Béma’s blessings!” he calls, seemingly relieved to see you. “Would you be so kind as to put my ladder back, my good woman?” Following his finger, you spot a long ladder lying in the grass beneath the window. Picking it up, you rest it back against the wall, wondering why the man hasn’t just jumped; he is only about 10 feet above ground, hardly an impossible leap, even for a Man. “Thank you, lass,” he calls, and you immediately realise the reason he was stuck when he begins clambering down the rungs. The man has only one leg, the other coming to a stump about mid-thigh. Holding the ladder steady, you notice the careworn state of the buildings; obviously the one-legged man has enough to do taking care of his animals, leaving his buildings to fall into disrepair.

“You need help?” you ask, when he has reached the ground safely. The man blinks up at you, staring.

“You’re a tall one,” he mumbles to himself, probably not intending for you to hear the low words. You smile, amused by the comment. At nearly seven feet, you are _a lot_ taller than all the humans you have met so far, even if you are not as tall as you ought to have been; the lack of food in the Orc stronghold stunted your growth. Beorn was taller, but he’d been an adult already when the Orcs came – it still aches to think his name, to wonder how he is coping alone, but you push the thought away.

“Strong, too,” you smirk, the Man jumps slightly, startled. You give him a friendly smile.

“You’re not running away from your husband, are you?” the Man asks suddenly, narrowing his eyes at you. You shake your head with a slight laugh. No, you have no mate, and never will. “I’ve enough trouble without inviting more from anyone coming after you,” he mumbles, blushing as he stares at your body, as though noticing your dress for the first time. The cloth is a simple blue, turned into a form-fitting tunic and a pair of brown trousers, clothes you had made when you lived with Beorn – you learned that you are good at weaving, something Beorn tended to struggle with, and it shows in the quality of your garments.

“No husband, nor family,” you shrug, “no home to speak of. I am simply looking to see some of the world, Master Farmer.”

“Athelstan,” he replies, apparently choosing to accept your word and holds out his hand.

“Ullrae,” you say, shaking it. His grip is strong, but not crushing, pleasant in a way that speaks to you on a deeper level. You smile. This man has a good scent.

“Well, Ullrae, how about a bit of breakfast? One good turn deserves another,” Athelstan offers, waving towards the house. You nod. Athelstan picks up his crutch, making his way toward the henhouse. You wonder if you should offer to help him, but decide against it. The Man is obviously proud of what he _can_ do; offending him by implying he is incapable would be impolite. Looking around, you spot an axe and a wood-chopping block. Picking up the axe, you let the calm serenity of chopping wood fill you; the rhythmic _thunk!_ s a familiar sound that make you think of Beorn with a small smile.

“Well, you weren’t kidding about being strong,” Athelstan murmurs under his breath. Focusing on your surroundings once more, you realise you’ve already split fourteen logs in fours. Picking up a few logs, you carry them into the small kitchen, setting them down in a neat stack by the hearth. “Go get a bucket of water from the well, Ullrae,” Athelstan asks quietly, getting a small fire going with practiced ease. You nod silently.

Hauling the bucket up from the depths, you wonder if Athelstan has no kin to help him – the farmstead is small, but would certainly have benefited from an extra pair of hands. Maybe you’ll chop up the rest of his winter firewood supply before you move on, you think with a smile.

“Water,” you announce, startling Athelstan. You smile apologetically, reminding yourself that humans can’t hear your steps; the grace of the lynx’ body bleeds into your human skin and allows you to walk silently over most surfaces.

“I’ve oats for porridge, but I haven’t milked the cow yet,” he replies apologetically, covering up his surprise. You shrug.

“I could do it,” you offer, “though strange cows tend not to like me at first.” It is something you’ve come to realise travelling through this land. Milking is a simple task on any farm, but the cows seem to smell predator on you – even in human skin – and often shy away from you. Horses, however, like you. Athelstan chuckles.

“I’ll go do that then,” he winks, “and you can get some water heated for a pot of tea.” You nod silently, turning to fill his kettle with the bucket of water, swinging it back over the fire as you listen to his uneven gait moving across to the cow’s pasture. You hear the low sound of mooing, the cow obviously relieved to be milked.

When you have fetched another bucket of water, you sweep the floor of the kitchen quickly, waiting for Athelstan to return with milk. Setting out a crock of honey and a small container of salt, you crack a couple of eggs in a bowl, whisking them lightly; feeling like having scrambled eggs for breakfast while the porridge cooks.

 

* * *

 

After breakfast, you help Athelstan unload the rest of the hay – obviously a task he hadn’t finished the evening before, which was why he’d skipped breakfast to do it – finishing just in time to put the cart into the barn before the rain-clouds burst overhead.

“You might as well wait out the rain,” he says sagely, nodding at the sheets of water coming down. You smile. Pulling out an old shirt of Beorn’s – it no longer smells of him, you think, feeling a little sad at the fact – you set to mending a tear in the fabric. As you mend your shirt – silently taking care of the sleeve Athelstan ripped on a nail earlier too – Athelstan begins mixing flour for bread dough. “If you wanna stay a while, I could do with a hand with the harvest,” Athelstan mumbles later, his fingers nimbly twisting candlewicks while the dough rises. Outside, water is still pouring.

“Sure,” you reply, unafraid. Athelstan is strong, but you are stronger; you are in no danger from him, you know, having long-since learned to see the heart of a man – Man, Walker, or Orc. Athelstan is a lonely man, but he won’t try anything you don’t invite.

 

* * *

 

Six turns of the moon later, you are still on the farm, spending your days in quiet companionship with Athelstan. It isn’t the same as living with Beorn – the mere thought of your bear still makes your heart beat a little quicker – but it is a good solid existence. As you take on more tasks, the farm begins looking better, and Athelstan with it. The cow eventually got used to you, though you had had a few tipped buckets of milk before that happened. Athelstan takes you riding – you’ve visited the closest village for things he can’t make himself, and to sell things you made – but you also patrol the land in your other skin, marking it as your territory. You haven’t told Athelstan of your other form, though you often spend your nights in the lynx’ skin; listening for Orcs is an unbreakable habit by now. You try not to admit to yourself that you also listen for the sound of a huffing bear, even though you know Beorn will not come looking for you; during the two decades you spent with him that, too, has become an unbreakable habit.

 

* * *

 

“Why do you not have a wife?” you ask one evening, spending the dark winter night sewing a new shirt for Athelstan while he carves himself a new crutch. The old one hit a stone or something while he walked along the road, and the bottom foot of wood has split in two.

“I did, once,” Athelstan says quietly. The scent of sadness surrounds him, the flavour of old sorrow. It is familiar to you. “Had a daughter, too, and a wee lad.” You look up when he rises from the table, fetching a pair of scrolls. Unrolling them, he shows you a smiling woman – the sketch was clearly made by the corner of the house; you recognise the carvings on the door post. “My wife, Ceolwen,” he says, stroking the woman’s round cheek. Ceolwen had been a pretty woman, you think. Athelstan rolls up the scroll once more, carefully tying the string holding it closed. He unrolls the other, holding it flat on the table. “My daughter, Eafled, with my son, Athelred.” Eafled clearly took after her mother, though the small boy – no more than a toddler – had inherited Athelstan’s dark curls.

“They are dead?” you ask, giving him a sympathetic look. Athelstan nods.

“Ceolwen died giving birth… and a sickness claimed my children three years later.” He ties up the scroll once more, returning it to its shelf.

“My family was murdered,” you hear yourself say; the first time since your early days with Beorn you have spoken of them. “Orcs came… there is nothing left for me there.”

“Is that why you travel?” he asks, frowning, ignoring the fact that you have been with him for more than two seasons. “Because your home is gone?” You chuckle mirthlessly.

“Yes, Athelstan, my home is gone; long ago and far away… I am alone.” Except for Beorn, your heart mumbles, but – as always – you ignore the desire to go back to the man who doesn’t love you like you love him.

Neither of you speak another word that night.

 

* * *

 

 

“The King has called a muster,” Athelstan announces, when you have been with him for little over a year. Looking up from your work, planting leeks that have grown inside the house until the seedlings are strong enough to survive in the field, you spot a young lad on a horse, obviously come to deliver the word of the King.

“A muster?” you ask, frowning at the unfamiliar term. Offering the lad a drink from your bucket – welcome on the hot summer day – you wait for Athelstan to explain.

“Orcs are raiding our lands, looking for black horses it seems, but pillaging everything they can, my lady,” the boy says, gulping down the fresh water. You offer your bucket to his horse, which is equally grateful for a drink.

“The muster is the calling of the King’s forces; we’re going to fight the orcs,” Athelstan mumbles. You know why he hesitates. Orcs took his leg once, when they foundered his horse, the big beast crushing Athelstan’s leg beneath it. He knows the dangers he will soon face.

“I will go.” You smile viciously, the predator rising in your blood. You are meant for the hunt, not the farm, and you have longed to avenge yourself on those who have tormented your race. “I have a score to settle with those foul creatures,” you grin, ignoring the way the boy pales. Your eyes are probably glowing yellow, your sharp teeth clearly displayed. Leaping onto his horse, the boy flees swiftly. You chuckle, smelling the acrid scent of his fear.

“I was hoping you would stay here, Ullrae,” Athelstan whispers, his quiet words breaking through the song of blood-lust in your blood. You whirl to face him, cocking your head questioningly. “You are dear to me, girl.” He admits, blushing lightly. You know that, of course, know that he’d often give you fatherly smiles, but you haven’t thought about the deeper implications. “I know you are strong, but these are orcs… I could not bear to see them harm you.”

“You are more likely to be hurt than I,” you mumble, cupping his face. “And if I am dear to you, are you not so to me? Should I not wish to protect you?” Athelstan smiles, but then his face hardens.

“You cannot ride with an éored,” he sighs, “I do not know where you lived before, but it was certainly not Rohan.” He has a point. You are not a good rider; even though Athelstan has only one leg, he sits far more securely in the saddle than you. Of course, you have no intention of fighting in human shape, but he doesn’t know that. You give him another sharp smile.

“Follow me,” you call, heading back to the farm. Athelstan shakes his head fondly, probably thinking you’ll try to prove you can ride with a lance, fight with a sword. When he reaches the courtyard, however, you have not pulled out one of his two horses, simply put the bucket down by the well, and stand waiting.

“What are you doing?!” he cries, when you begin removing your clothes. A fierce blush stains his cheeks as he whirls as swiftly as the crutch allows. You smirk, leaving your clothes in a pile beside you. Humans have such odd hang-ups about nudity.

“Please, Athelstan,” you reply, needing him to watch the transformation, to know the truth of what you are, “do not be frightened. Turn around.” You trust him, but you do not know what he will do when he realises that you are not truly human, even if your ‘cat-like’ appearance should have given him some inkling that you are different to him.

“Are you dressed?” he asks weakly. You chuckle.

“No. I will put my clothes back on when you have seen what I wish to show you.” The long thin scars from the lash have long-since healed, leaving your skin unmarred – scars never remain for long on the shifting body of a Walker, after all. Athelstan sighs – you are far more stubborn than him, and he knows it. When he turns to face you, you shift. Yawning widely – showing off your teeth – you lay down, trying to appear non-threatening to your friend.

“Béma!” Athelstan exclaims, staring wide-eyed at you. “You’re… a lion. Is it you, Ullrae?” he asks, creeping closer. You nod. Stretching languidly, you get to your feet, padding towards him with slow feline grace. “How is this… possible?” You shrug, though he doesn’t seem to expect an answer. You’d never been told how the Walkers began, after all, most of your kin believing that you are manifestations of the First Powers, infused by the Spirit of the Hunt; not too different from Men, but far older as a race. Bumping his good leg lightly with your head, you rub your side along him, amused that your back is level with his hip. Changing back to your human skin – slightly regretful, you would have liked to go for a run – you get dressed again.

“I had no plans to fight as a woman, Athelstan,” you chuckle, turning to face his awed expression.

“You are one of the Gengende…” he breathed. “My old grandmother told me legends of men who could walk as animals, but I always thought it was just a story.”

“It _is_ a story.” You snap, suddenly ill-tempered. “The Orcs slaughtered all the Walkers they found. We are but a legend now.”

“Your family,” he whispers in sad understanding. “The Orcs who killed your family… they killed your people?”

“All of my kin, yes, and more besides,” you snarl, an angry sound that echoes against the wooden walls around you. You remember Léona’s roars, trying to protect his pride, remember your siblings, the cubs, the youngsters, the old; _everyone dead except you…_ and Beorn.

“You still cannot fight with an éored,” Athelstan points out. “Even if you did not scare their horses, they would think you a giant beast; a worthy fur rug for the King.” You snarl at the thought, though you know he is right. It is unsafe to go to war on your own, but you do not wish to be left behind either. You miss your sisters. Three lynxes can take down almost anything, you know, working together. You ruthlessly squash the desire to run back to Beorn, make him fight with you – he will relish any chance at killing orcs, you know; and, even if he hates you, he wouldn’t let you get hurt if he could prevent it.

 

* * *

 

 

In the end, you stay home, looking after the farm and the animals. It grates, but neither of you have been able to come up with a way for you to join the King’s army that does not involve riding – unless you wanted to be a camp-cook – which is not an option. Even if you could stay on a horse while in combat – a big IF – you still have no skill to speak of with a sword or a lance.

To make yourself feel better, you spend two days hunting deer and hauling the carcasses back to the farm, smoking the meat for winter storage.

After that, you cut more logs than you are likely to need through the next two winters, hauling trees back from the nearby forest. Fangorn is reputedly haunted, but you know better; the tree herders are known to your kind as more than legends, and you know how to pick the trees that need culling, making space for new growth. Dragging a whole tree out through the underbrush is a hassle, but not impossible for someone with your strength; you’ve pulled Athelstan’s hay cart to the edge of the forest, and once you’ve cut off a few of the larger branches it is easy enough to tie the pieces of tree together to take them away.

Athelstan keeps a few sheep, which had been sheared in spring and the wool carded. You spend days spinning the long fibres into thread, dyeing it all green with a mix of foxglove and chamomile. Later, you will waulk it, before turning it into a pair of the long cloaks favoured by the horse lords. Athelstan had wanted you to get a new cloak last winter, but you had made do with stitched together fur from your kills, not wanting to buy wool with Athelstan’s money when you did not feel the cold the same way he did.

You haven’t thought about it ever since you ran from Beorn’s house, but your heat is nearing. Putting the animals out to pasture, you lock yourself in the hay barn, suffering as you had done at Beorn’s. Though not tormented by the scent of a delicious male as you had been then, you are still in agony throughout.

As luck would have it, Athelstan returns at the end of your third day of needing, a linen bandage wrapped around his arm but otherwise unscathed.

“Ullrae?” he calls, but you feel too weak to answer, trembling in your pile of straw. You’d brought two buckets of water into the barn with you, but you’d accidentally knocked the full one over during the second day. Your throat feels drier than sand. “Ullrae!” he calls again, sounding worried. You move slightly, trying to get to your feet, but give up halfway. Slumping down onto the straw, you make a pained mewling sound, curling up around your empty belly. You miss Beorn taking care of you after one of your heats; even though he always fled when they began, he was always there to help you afterwards. “Ullrae?!” Athelstan cries, opening the barn door. You hiss at the sudden light piercing the hay-scented gloom. “What happened to you?!” he whispers, staring horrified at your naked flesh, covered in self-inflicted scratches and bruises. You can’t gather yourself to do more than whimper.

“Water,” you croak hoarsely, interrupting him before he can touch your skin, still feeling the licks of the flames as your heat passes.

“Ullrae,” he whispers, as he helps you sip. “Did someone… attack you?” He has covered your nakedness with his cloak, and you haven’t the heart to tell him that the wool is uncomfortable. If you had a mate, you’d wear the scratches of his claws, the marks of his bites with pride, walking around naked until they healed; showing off, as it were. You still remember your sister’s smug smiles when she went through her last needing; she had mated a few years before and Léofwine had marked her up properly, his own smugness more than evident when Lillia showed signs of bearing. You sigh, waving away memories of playing with the little cubs; Lillia’s first litter, two girls and a boy, a good omen for a strong family, your father had said.

“Heat,” you try, but you know Athelstan doesn’t understand. You stumble, but you manage to get to your feet, manage to walk across the yard as you try not to wince at the feeling of pebbles against your oversensitive skin. Collapsing weakly into your chair – it is larger than Athelstan’s, he made it for you when you’d been on the farm for four months – you reach for a three days old loaf of bread, tearing into it with rapacious hunger. Athelstan pours water into the kettle, lighting the hearth-fire.

“Tell me what happened?” he is nearly begging, and you finally realise that he thinks the marks on your body were made by someone who used you for sport.

“Heat,” you repeat, swallowing before continuing in a rough voice, hoarse from crying and screaming. “I went into heat.”

“Heat…?” Athelstan is obviously lost.

“Females go into heat when they’re fertile,” you say, standing to reach the smoked leg of venison you had left out before you went into the barn and tearing off a strip with your teeth. You want fresh meet, want to gorge yourself on blood and meat, but that is instinct; your body wanting the best food source for the cub you will not have. “All of this,” you gesture to your body, “I did all of it. The needing is painful if you do not have a mate to,” you pause, knowing that he is sensitive about this sort of topic, even though he was married before and must have more experience than you do. Athelstan nods. The smoked meat is nearly gone. You feel a little bloated. Porridge might have been a better idea, just like Beorn always claimed. Porridge and four hours of rest, then you’d been allowed to hunt. The memory makes you nearly tearful, wishing the _he_ was here, even if it wouldn’t change anything.

“How long were you out there?” Athelstan asks, a little fearfully as he stares at the clean-picked bone.

“Three days, usually. I don’t remember most of it,” you shrug, seeing no need for him to know just how much agony is involved. “It’ll be four years before it happens again.” Pushing away from the table, you stumble off to your bed, falling into exhausted sleep as soon as your head hits the pillow.

 


	4. Flight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This thing continues to grow! 4.6k words for you, my lovelies, enjoy!

At first, he sees only one sentence. _I am not coming back._ He feels numb, sits for hours staring at those words. They make him a failure, more than anything else she could have said, more than running away in the first place. _The first duty of a Scildere is to protect those who are weaker, those who are **in his care**._ Papa’s words resound in his head, spoken centuries before, but still remembered with clarity by the man who was once a small boy called Hwelpan, sitting on his Mama’s lap as Papa explained the rules of the Clan’s life. Mama was queen, dryhtcwén, she made the rules, bargained with the other lords and cared for the people under her command. Papa was her Scildere, the protector, the warrior in charge of keeping everyone safe. It was the role Beorn had always wanted, though he had barely been old enough to mate when the Orcs came; he had already proven to be a skilled fighter, even though Papa was still better.

None of their training had mattered against bows and the bite of metal blades.

Beorn has killed many Orcs, he knows, still staring at the paper. He is the best chance Ullrae has of safety; he has learned over the years how to defend against their metal weapons, how to use his speed and intelligence to defeat his enemies. He failed to protect Berveig, who was torn away from his side in the mines, but he _knows_ he could protect her. He is better now, better than he was then; he has grown in strength and cunning with age, just like Papa once promised he would, back when the world was still filled with happiness and sunshine and play.

Unbidden, an image of Ullrae loping across the fields in her lynx-body fills his mind; the world still has sunshine, catching on golden fur, still has happiness in the way she laughs when she plays with the dogs. For the first time in many years, Beorn cries, realising what he has lost; much more than when Álmbera left to marry one of the Northmen who rode through his lands as they migrated south. Álmbera was his salvation; she taught him to be a family, taught him how to love again, and yet he had not recognised that the cracks she had made in his stone heart had been wedged open further by Ullrae’s golden eyes – still capable of smiling, even after all she had gone through. A cry of pain rips from his throat, scaring one of the dogs.

 _I am not coming back_.

He stares at the words, traces them with shaky fingers, and he _knows_. Berveig was taken from him, only three moons after their mating, though he had known her for some years beforehand… Ullrae, however, has left him behind on purpose, after he has spent two decades falling in love with her; something he did not think possible. He has never heard of a mated bear loving someone else after the mate is dead – and Berveig is dead, he knows, Ullrae has never been able to lie to him convincingly – but he knows, _knows_ that Ullrae is his love, feeling more despair at losing her than he remembers feeling for Berveig a century before. Jumping to his feet, Beorn is ready to go out once more, try to find her elusive trail, follow her until he can make her _see_.

Then he spots Berveig’s name on the paper, rending his resolve in pieces as old pain rears its head once more. As he reads the words, he can see her, fierce and beautiful, strong; a fit mate for the son of the dryhtcwén, Mama once said, pride in her voice as she watched Berveig fight. Ullrae’s words are simple – he taught her how to write and read, but she did not practice often, seeing little need – and yet the words, dark ink on creamy paper, shape stark and vivid images in his head, makes him think he can almost hear Berveig’s roars, smell her blood spill on stone floors. Reading the account of her torture is horrible; Beorn has to leave in the middle, sicking up against the side of the house as he imagines her screams, imagines the Orc’s laughter. He even imagines Ullrae there, wearing the same shackle he had once struck from her leg, staring at the spectacle with the same deadness in her eyes as he would see whenever she thought about the Stronghold and her life there, remembered her family’s deaths. He can’t decide which sight is more painful; knowing how Berveig’s life ended has not brought him the peace he expected when he first demanded Ullrae tell him. He regrets the sparks of anger he has carried since then, knows that she felt them, even when he was not angry with her so much as with himself for worrying at a wound he had thought long-since healed.

He wishes he had not emptied his stomach, reading the brief words that tell him the fate of his son. This time, there is nothing but bile to spill from his mouth, the images in his head cycling in a reel of pain and despair. Dark and boiling hatred rises in him, black like tar and equally viscous, nearly choking the breath from his lungs. It doesn’t matter that he had never even known the cub existed; the loss of his son is mingled with impotent anger at himself, failing to protect what was his to keep safe, anger at Berveig for not telling him about the cub, even anger that he’s the reason Berveig was pregnant at all. If she hadn’t been, perhaps she would have been there on the fortuitous day when a rock falling broke the chains that bound him and an old grizzly told him to go, told him to _run_ , made his escape possible by sacrificing himself to the anger of the Orc overseer.

He wants to rage at Ullrae, as he rages at the furniture he has so carefully made over the years; smashing and snapping, the sound of wood breaking not enough to quiet his screams of fury. He wants to scream at her, tell her she should have kept her silence; it would have been better not to _know_. He remembers her telling him that, telling him he would not wish to have the images now lodged in his brain and he knows she is right. He wants to scream at her, ask her what she has left out, ask her how she is still sane after witnessing so much horror. He wants to hold her, to never let go, to promise her that he will keep her safe for all the years remaining to him, even if he knows that she is capable of fighting her own battles.

He spends more than an hour yelling at her spectre; the laughing girl who is gone forever, who stole his heart without his knowledge or permission, and left him to live among the broken, jagged pieces of once-happiness.

 

* * *

 

When he returns to his own mind, he is sitting among a mess of splinters; no thing in the room has remained whole in the face of his raging fury. A flash of pale cream catches his eye; the letter has fallen to the hearth he does not remember lighting.

Scrabbling to pull it from the flames that have already devoured all but one corner, he is left with a triangle of paper bearing seven small words.

_All my love,_

_Ullrae, daughter of Léona._

He remains kneeling on the kitchen floor the rest of the night, crying for all he has lost, feeling broken beyond repair; his heart no different from the splinters that surround him. The dogs eventually dare to approach, but Beorn finds no comfort in the cold noses prodding his bare skin – he thinks he was a bear for some of the destruction, but he does not care that he is naked – nor does he hear the soft whines of his small friends.

 

* * *

 

 

The morning sun paints the room with gold, dust motes whirling in the air. Beorn’s tears have dried on his face, but it takes him hours to get to his feet, to begin cleaning up the splintered and broken wood. He walks through the house mechanically, numb, thinking of no one and nothing beyond the task at hand, losing hours staring into thin air.

 

* * *

 

It takes him three days to leave the fog of numbness, to realise that he needs to find her. He worries about her, though he tries not to, tries to trust that he has taught her the skills she didn’t already have, has taught her well enough that she will survive, even without coming back to their home. He winces at the memory of her screaming at him; she is right, it _is_ her home, too, has been her home for as long as she has been there, her home ever since he woke up to find a wildling girl stumbling through his territory chased by orcs bent on her destruction. He remembers with crystal clarity the giddy way she kissed him, named him hers – how did he not know then, how did he not notice how much it pleased him to be claimed thus? – even the way she bravely faced his anger to ask for what she needed even when he had mistaken her question the first time. Ullrae has always been brave, a fierce little wild thing, and he has to believe that her fierce spirit can carry her through life.

He already knows he won’t find her trail, she’s too efficient a prowler, so his hunt is little more than a token effort to appease his own heartsickness. It does not work, though he slaughters a small band of roving Orcs almost without noticing.

 

* * *

 

Returning to the cabin – is it still home without Ullrae to greet him with a smile? – Beorn shudders at the sight of the dark house. He takes care of the neglected animals, the goats and the hens, pats the dogs as he moves through his house aimlessly, absentmindedly.

 

* * *

 

Two hours later, he leaves, the animals free to roam behind him; Beorn barely thinks about the place he has cared for, has called _home_ for so long. The massive black bear lumbers north, his purpose once more nothing but vengeance.

He makes his way to his old home – there’s nothing left of the village after nearly two centuries, of course, but he spends a day saying goodbye to the life he knew there, remembering the fiery red hair of his Mama, the grizzled face of his Papa. He thinks Mama would have liked Ullrae. It is the last time he allows himself to even think her name.

 

* * *

 

 

“Gyda is pregnant,” Athelstan reveals one day, staring at the blue sky far above you. It is evening, the chores of the day are done, and you’ve chosen a moment to simply relax, follow the path of clouds racing across the sky.

“From the Blessing?” you ask; it’s a custom that puzzled you the first time Athelstan went to war, and you understand it no better after it’s happened the second time. Athelstan tried to explain it, something about anchoring his soul to the land through the flesh of a woman willing; his guarantee that he would join his ancestors if he should fall in battle, find his way to their halls. He nods, a tight, not-quite-happy move that makes you frown. “Congratulations, my friend,” you say, meaning it. In your Pride, new cubs were celebrated; and though you know Men are different, surely, they, too, find joy in the creation of new life? Athelstan sighs heavily. “Will you marry Gyda?” The cheesemaker in the village is a plump and happy woman, you think she could be good for Athelstan, and if you ever felt a need to leave, you’d like to leave him in the hands of a good woman.

“I cannot pay her bride-price,” Athelstan says, “though I will claim the child. If it is a boy, he will be my heir. If it is a girl, I will set aside some money and things for her.”

“What’s a bride-price?” you wonder. You know what a bride is, and trading with the Elves in the forest taught you about the price of goods… _but Gyda is a woman_ , you think, _you can’t buy a woman… can you?_

“It is the price I would have to pay her family to marry Gyda,” Athelstan explains, which isn’t much of an explanation. In your world, mating is determined by strength. If a male wants a female, he has to make her submit to his strength, prove he can protect her and any cubs; far more sensible, you think, feeling a shiver of lust at the thought of Beorn. You suppress it ruthlessly, thinking about Rena’s first mating challenge; she lost, but the male had not fought fairly, and your father had challenged him in return. It was rare that such challenges happened, but it was in your laws that, one of the female’s kin may challenge the male if he is considered unworthy or wins through trickery. You subside into silence, determined to speak to Gyda the next time you visit the village.

 

* * *

 

 

“You have been gone a long time,” Radagast says, when the bear returns to the cabin he once helped build. The bear looks at him, no recognition in his eyes. “Where is your mate, Beorn?” Radagast asks quietly, “Where is Ullrae?” The bear roars, as though the name hurts him, shuddering until it transforms – slower than Radagast has ever seen, the wizard notes worriedly – into a wild-looking man who falls to his knees.

“Not mate,” he croaks brokenly, voice faint, as though he has forgotten how to speak. “She is gone.” Radagast does not reply, though he helps Beorn into the house, his eyes widening at the lack of furniture. Beorn slumps against a wall.

“How long has it been since you walked as a man?” Radagast frowns.

“Seven winters…” Beorn finally replies, the words slow and hard to find. “I think.”

“Do you want to be a bear for good?!” the wizard exclaims, more than a little horrified. The bear won’t remember how to be human forever, much like staying human too long can harm the ability to shift. “What happened to Ullrae?”

“She’s gone,” Beorn says, staring at his old friend, “I… she left, and it was my fault.” Radagast frowns.

“Gone where?” he asks, somehow finding two cups and pouring a cup of tea for each of them before he sits next to Beorn on the floor.

“I don’t know,” Beorn sighs. The pain is still raw, but he forces himself to tell his old friend everything; Radagast once turned him from the path of vengeance and death, perhaps the wizard can help. Radagast hums thoughtfully, stuffing his pipe. Beorn frowns lightly; he used to grow some tobacco plants for Radagast, but he hasn’t been back here for seven years; the fields are overrun by wild nature and very little remains of the gardens that Ullrae had loved. A storm felled her favourite tree in his absence, the broken stump another wound to his soul somehow; the land is forgetting her presence, making it seem like she was never here.

“She would have gone south,” Radagast finally says, “she wanted to see humans, didn’t she?” Beorn nods slowly; Radagast is right, Ullrae would have gone south, not north like she had pretended to throw him off her trail.

“The south lands are big,” he mutters darkly, “she could have gone anywhere.”

“She would need somewhere safe to go into heat,” Radagast points out mildly, his words making a sick feeling spread in Beorn’s gut. _What if his Ullrae has found someone to ease the burning? What if she has mated_ – he counts in his head; she would have had two heats since she left – _what if she had chosen to bear the children of some unknown Man?_ A snarl rips from his throat. _MINE!_ Resounds in his head, making him jump to his feet, pace across the floor; desperation feeding his soul the image of Ullrae’s naked body writhing beneath some straw-headed Man. Beorn growls.

Radagast goes into the bedroom – how did he not realise what she meant to him when she slept in his arms? – returning with a small box. Álmbera made it once, as a child; Beorn has cared for it for nearly a century, as a memento of his human daughter. Inside he has kept trinkets, small tokens of his life, and Radagast knows it. There is an acorn the wizard once gave him, it has turned to stone, Beorn thinks, a dried flower – more brittle that he likes to think of – from Álmbera’s wedding crown, a scrap from her dress tied around the stem with a lock of her and Tirwald’s hair twined together. The box also holds a strange silvery metal; the remains of Ullrae’s shackle, which Beorn still doesn’t know what to do with; the metal can break, yes, but he feels uneasy leaving it where he cannot check it is there. It is a weapon; one he _knows_ will affect him. If it can still force someone – he broke it in five pieces, but he doesn’t think it is enough to break such a spell – to remain in human shape, the shackle is probably the most dangerous thing he has ever come across. He is strong, even when he walks as a man, capable of living through things that would have killed Men, but he is not invincible. The most important thing, however, is a small scrap of paper, one edge blackened and burnt; definite proof that Ullrae was here, that she cared for him.

“Give me that!” he snarls, cradling the box to his chest. Radagast smiles wistfully.

“I miss Álmbera, too,” he says, trailing a gnarled finger through the air just above the fragile dry petals. “She made you a better man, my friend,” he sighs, “a happier man. I had hoped Ullrae would help you become the man you were meant to be.” Beorn flinches at the name, but he is still filled with a fervent desire – _need_ – to go after her, bring her back, _claim_ her. “You were not created for solitude, Beorn.”

“I know,” he mumbles, closing the lid carefully. The hairs inside have lost all colour, but he pretends he can still see the vibrant red of Álmbera’s curls and the golden wheat of the man who loved her. He doesn’t even have that much of Ullrae, he suddenly realises; he has things she has made, yes, but no physical memory of her beyond seven words on a burnt scrap of paper.

“Go find her,” Radagast sighs. Beorn smiles. He has missed that combination of paternal love and exasperation Radagast excels at, mixed with a dash of distrait but benign madness. “I shall speak to my small friends; Ullrae is not exactly a forgettable woman… someone will have seen her.”

 

Beorn barely takes the time to put his small box of memories back in its place before he is off, loping south as a giant bear.

“You’ll need some clothes!” Radagast calls after him, but Beorn simply huffs a bear’s growly laugh back at him. He’ll steal something to wear or stitch some skins together himself, make clothes that way. Ullrae won’t care what he wears.

He tries not to imagine what she will say when he finds her – he has no doubt he will – squashes every thought that she might have found herself a husband in the years she has been gone.

 

* * *

 

 

You have been with Athelstan for nearly eight summers when he first notices.

“You haven’t aged a day since we met,” he remarks one morning, stroking the obvious grey hairs that have snuck into his brown locks over the last three years. You smile, but it is tinged with sadness, knowing that the words only come because Athelstan knows he has not got many years of life left.

“I am not a Man, Athelstan,” you reply quietly, staring down the road with him. You’re expecting his sister’s son to arrive today from Aldburg; Mildwyn’s son is the logical heir to Athelstan’s farm. He would leave it to you, you know, but you also know that when he dies, this will not be your home. “I do not age like you do. I am…” you think about it; you’re not sure what year you were born, after all, “more than a century old,” you finally say, because that’s not wrong. You were young when you were captured, only thirty summers, and you spent more than a century in the Stronghold. You wonder if you’re closer to two centuries now, but it hardly matters. You will live until you join the Hunt Eternal and reunite with your kin. Athelstan gasps. You look younger than him – even when you first came here, you looked more than a couple decades younger than him – and you know some of the gossips in the village speculate about your relationship with Athelstan. It does not bother you, though you know he takes the words to heart. To you, these people do not matter; when they are dead and dust, you will still walk the land, why should you care what they think of you. You care about Athelstan, because he is your friend, but the rest of these people might as well be sheep to you – or maybe horses, sheep are a bit too stupid to be people, you chuckle to yourself, even if some of the villagers aren’t much cleverer than an ordinary sheep.

“That’s… odd,” he laughs. You wince. His laugh has turned wheezy over the last few years, winter lingering in his chest. You both ignore it with long practice.

“It is the way of my kin,” you shrug, “we grow slowly.”

“How slowly?” he frowns. Athelstan always wants to know more about your kind, the ones he calls Gengende, and sometimes you ignore the pain of discussing your past, regaling him with stories of your sisters, playing with the cubs and other happier memories. You do not tell him about Beorn, though you think he knows that love clings stubbornly in your breast making you sigh when you cast your eyes north.

“I do not know,” you purse your lips thoughtfully. “If I had borne a cub from the first needing I had here,” you begin, though it hurts to discuss a fate that will not be yours, “she would have finished suckling about two years ago, but she would still be small, and I would not let her roam far from the den. Like… a toddler,” you say, remembering the word for small children. Gyda, the village cheesemaker, has a toddler, three-year-old Wilrun. She is also Athelstan’s child, though no one speaks of it. The babe was a result of the Blessing – the fighting against the orcs that had concurred with your needing had not been the last time Athelstan went to war – the old ritual of the Rohirrim. You know he would like his child to grow up knowing him, but though you usually stop by the cheesemaker’s house on market days, her brother always glares darkly at you until you leave again. You do not pretend to understand; Gyda is a widow, and a marriage is not like a mating, she is free to love again, marry again, and she has no other children to care for; in your mind, there is little to hinder her moving to your small farm with her daughter. Athelstan tried to explain it once, but you could not make sense of the concept of a bride-price. Athelstan quirks a smile, though it is edged in sorrow, and you know he too is thinking about little Wilrun.

“When would she be an adult then?” he wonders, shading his eyes as he stares down the road. You shrug. You were not an adult yourself when you were brought to Azog.

“When she was an adult woman, who had grown breasts to feed her young, and wider hips to bear them,” you say vaguely; the concept has always been nebulous to you. You remember Lillia’s coming of age vaguely, but you never had a celebration of your own; you only know that it would have been some time while you were in Azog’s keeping. “The Pride would have a feast for her, and everyone would watch her shift.”

“You do not shift as children?” he asks, making you laugh. He loves your form, especially during autumn when you hunt effectively, ensuring that you do not starve through the cold winter, by bringing home game that means you do not have to feed up and slaughter as much livestock.

“Of course, we do.” You shake your head fondly, “but the first adult shift is considered special, just like the first adult hunt, where the new lynx leads the hunt and takes her first solo kill.” Looking back on it, that would be the night Beorn struck off your shackle, sharing your small kill. You smile softly; the memory is a fond one, even if it is laced with sadness. “A few years after that, she will have her first heat, and if she has not found a mate, she will begin looking. My sister, Lillia, was mated a few years before the Orcs came… his name was Léofwine of the Grasslands Pride. He was a worthy male; even my father said so,” you laugh, remembering the fierce but playful male, “females are powerful hunters and fighters; they will not accept a mate who cannot dominate them with his strength; proof he will sire strong cubs. Léofwine was very strong… many females wanted him, but he wanted only Lillia.” He would probably have been strong enough to take more than one female through heat, the beginning of his own Pride, but Léofwine had not had that sort of ambition, his eyes fixed on Lillia from their first meeting.

“And you?” Athelstan has asked you before, about husbands, but you have always said no; knowing that you found your mate years ago, recognised his strength as yours before you even knew his name.

“I was… a girl.” You mumble, trying to explain it in a way that makes sense to a human. “Orcs came, killed everyone but me and I was a girl then. I am woman now, but still… not mated.” The clatter of hooves interrupts whatever Athelstan wants to say, a young man dismounting with the easy grace of a born horseman.

“Uncle!” he calls happily. Athelstan smiles, moving to welcome his nephew, but you stiffen at the way his eyes roam over you.

“Ordred! Good to see you, lad!” Athelstan exclaims, clapping him on the back. You growl softly in your throat. “This is Ullrae, an old friend who helps me run the farm.” He gestures to you and you make yourself nod, keeping your countenance inscrutable even as your spine crawls with the way Ordred’s gaze follows the curve of your breast, the flare of your hips.

“Mistress Ullrae, your servant,” he claims, bending to kiss your knuckles. His eyes dance mischievously up at you. You have to force yourself not to wipe your hand against your trousers.

“Mister Ordred,” you reply coolly, turning back to the farm with a perfunctory nod. This young man is a predator, you think, recognising something in him that unnerves you. Once more, you affirm your vow; whenever Athelstan chooses to die, you will leave and never come back.

 

 

 

 


	5. The Search

Athelstan is not improving, you know, admitting it to yourself more than a year after Ordred’s arrival. You see it in the way he must rest after most tasks, the slow way he moves, often seeming unsure that his leg will bear him. You take on more of his chores, though much of your time is spent with Athelstan close to the house while Ordred works the fields. He is a good farmer, at least, though that is the highest compliment you can give him. He hasn’t ogled you as he did at your first meeting, but you still feel uneasy in his presence, preferring not to be alone with him.

 

Some days, as you watch Athelstan weaken, you wonder who will care for you when it is time for you to join the Hunt Eternal. Somehow, you hope your death will come at the point of blade; preferably in defence of a loved one, but swiftly. This lingering sickness that steals his breath – you have tried all the remedies you can think of, the ones you’ve learned from Beorn as well as the ones recommended by the village healer – is hard to watch. Athelstan was always a proud unbroken man, and you do not like to watch him so small and frail.

 

* * *

 

 

“She is a beautiful woman, Ordred,” Athelstan says in the kitchen; you know that he doesn’t realise you can hear him easily. Dropping the bucket into the well with a small splash, you begin to crank the handle that will bring up the water. The two men are sowing seeds in low wooden containers filled with soil – it is still too cold for vegetables to survive – where they will grow to seedlings in the warmth of the kitchen before you will plant them in the fields and garden.

“Very handsome, Uncle,” Ordred agrees. You tell yourself that he is not leering at you, but you know that’s a lie, feeling his gaze as you straighten, pulling the bucket from the well. The cow moos; she’s wanting milking, though it will have to wait until you have watered the horses. “Strong, too, she’d make a fine wife.” You make your way into the barn, hiding from them as though you could push the idea back into their heads if you’re not in line of sight. _Marry Ordred?_ You’d… you wouldn’t quite go so far as to say you’d rather return to Azog’s tender care, but it’s a close call. There’s simply something about him that scares you, and you’ve long-since learned to trust those instincts.

 

* * *

 

 

Beorn travels south, shying away from the settlements of Men when he can, wondering at how many farms he sees as he lumbers steadily on through the nights, sleeping beneath bushes or in fields during the day. It is clear the Northmen have thrived in this land, and for a moment he wonders if he might have had ‘descendants’ here, if Álmbera or her child had survived the birthing. He shakes his head; she has been gone for a very long time, she and Tirwald both, existing as no more than a memory in the heart of a lonely old bear. Still, he thinks about it, especially when he catches sight of a small redhaired girl dancing around her straw-haired father. The thought of her leads back to thoughts of Ullrae, thoughts he has not allowed himself to entertain before, wondering what her cubs will look like… _his_ cubs. He doesn’t know that it is possible; he has no recollection of a Walker mating with someone of a different animal skin, but he thinks it more likely any child of theirs would take the skin of a lynx. A pleased rumble escapes him, thinking about a small girl with Ullrae’s bright golden eyes – they’re more yellow than his own – filled with joyous laughter, as she plays with the dogs; just like her mother, finding fun in tugging strips of fur with them for hours. He moves away from that farm, leaving behind a swiftly tied straw-doll, almost amazed that his fingers remember how to make them, even though he has had no cause to make such toys since Álmbera became a woman.

He has had to realise that Radagast was right; clothes are a necessity. A massive bear lumbering through the landscape is even more conspicuous than a very tall man, even if he only moves at night; but nights are short, still, and he needs to cover a lot of ground, seeking any trace of her. At first, he creates a simple loincloth of fur, having hunted a few hares down, but eventually he has to admit that if he wishes to pass for a Man from a distance he will need proper clothes. He doesn’t want to steal, but he hasn’t got any money, nor does he think that any of the farmers would react well to the appearance of a half-naked man looking like a wildling with fur-clothes asking to trade. In the end, he leaves three fat rabbits in quickly constructed hutches by one farm, in return taking a pair of trousers that are too short and tight, but will do in a pinch. At another homestead, he manages to obtain a loose shirt – he thinks it is meant for sleeping, but it is relatively comfortable and doesn’t tear when he moves his shoulders – and changes his habits to walking by day and sleeping in his bear skin by night, changing back well before dawn when he’s hunted a satisfactory breakfast.

 

* * *

 

 

“I had hoped you would like Ordred more than you do,” Athelstan mumbles one afternoon, shortly after the harvest is over. You look up from your spinning; he hasn’t been able to speak for the past week, catching some illness at the village harvest festival that has worsened his breathing. You have not dared leave him for long, keeping to the house most of the day though you long to stretch your legs, long to hunt in your other form. Since Ordred arrived, you have spent less time as a lynx, limiting yourself to marking the borders of the farm in the dead of night; always careful that no one hears you leave your bed or return home in the small hours before dawn. You do not want him to share your secret, and Athelstan would never betray your trust to tell him.

“He is a fine worker,” you reply quietly. Athelstan might think of you as his ward, but he is blood-kin to Ordred; even if you have known him for almost ten years, you don’t want to offend him by disparaging his nephew.

“He would be a good husband for you,” Athelstan continues. His eyes are closed, missing the sheer horror on your face. You can’t find words to offer as a reply. “I could leave the farm to both of you; you would take care of Wilrun, too, if needed.”

“No, Athelstan,” you sigh, knowing he is trying to take care of you, while he still can. Getting to your feet, you pour him some more water, helping him sip. Athelstan smiles gratefully. “I will not marry Ordred.” You manage to keep the revulsion off your face, though Athelstan’s eyes have fallen closed once more and he does not see the tremors in your hands at the thought of mating someone who is _not_ Beorn. You feel the restlessness of the prowling cat in your soul, snarling at the very idea. You sigh, returning to your work as Athelstan’s light snore fills the kitchen. He sleeps here now, to be closer to the warmth of the hearth, and so you can keep an easier eye on him during the day.

“Do you not wish for a family of your own?” Athelstan asks, forcing his eyes open some time later. You turn away from the pot of stew you’ve been stirring meditatively to give him a gentle smile, bending to kiss his forehead. Athelstan has become your family. “You would have pretty children, Ullrae,” he continues, and you know you must tell him; must confirm what you believe he already knows.

“I will not marry Ordred, Athelstan, for my heart was sealed for a different male many years ago,” you whisper, stroking his cheek. “And though he does not want me, I do not think I shall ever want another.” The pain of that truth has lost its sharpest edges over the years you have been gone, though it still aches.

“I worry about you, Ullrae,” he replies with a frown, though you know he is thinking about Ceolwen. If he had married Gyda five years ago, things might have been different, but Ceolwen was his first and only true love, you know, catching the sorrow-mingled love on his face whenever his wife appears in his thoughts. “I want you to be taken care of when I’m gone.” Athelstan tries again, interrupted by a violent cough. You pat his cheek gently, helping him sit, letting him cough up the bloody goo that his sicknesses produce. You knew it when you first met, and you haven’t changed your mind as the years passed: Athelstan is a good man.

“Do not fret, my friend, I will be well.” You smile, as reassuring as you can be. In truth, and you both know it, you have no idea what you will do once he dies; you have an inkling that you might choose to live in your other skin for some time, maybe go south, see the mountains in this land. You will survive, somehow, too stubborn to give up on life until you have seen all that you may. It is your penance, you think, remembering all those who died while you alone survived. It would not do to join them in the Hunt without knowing that you have done the best you could with what you were given, without being able to say, ‘I have _lived’_.

“Tell me about this man who is daft enough not to want you, then,” he replies and, for a moment, you think the words will stick in your throat, but as you begin, hesitant, to describe the man you _would_ marry, you find they come easy, filling the small room with Beorn’s soft rumbles and slow smiles as you talk. You find that you remember more than you thought, recall many days that always seemed to be filled with sunlight and happiness, even in the dead of winter. Somehow, the pain has lessened over the years, allowing you to remember the small ways Beorn showed you that he cared for you, even if it was only something as simple as planting more of the flowers that made your favourite blue dye, or carving new wooden buttons for your clothes. You never learned to like knives, though the glint off a blade no longer sends you reeling in fright, remembering the many ways your skin has been cut over the years, the scars that you can still trace even if they are no longer visible. Athelstan smiles, drifting off to sleep to the sound of your voice. Perhaps you will go back, you think, one day. Just to check on Beorn’s small house, see if the dogs have multiplied like he said they would when you found the small female pup and brought her home. You could do it, could return without him knowing, just to _see_ … to know that Beorn is living and well, even if he won’t want to see you. With a small mile, you return to your spinning, coiling up the undyed thread. You will make it blue, you suddenly decide, blue like the sky in summer, when you’d lie in the garden and watch the clouds move, listening to Beorn’s rumbling song as he worked somewhere behind you, filling your heart with quiet joy. Maybe you will leave him a skein, when you go back, a small token that you had been there, and watch what he does with it, telling you whether he might – when you’re brave enough – welcome a proper visit.

 

* * *

 

 

Ordred listens to Ullrae’s quiet stories, knowing that she hasn’t heard him come in, too focussed on his uncle. He notes the way she caresses that name, 'Beorn', as she speaks, telling stories about a small log cabin and bountiful gardens, about bees larger than any others and a riot of colourful flowers. Jealousy eats him, realising that it is this _Beorn_ who makes her so reluctant towards his advances, whose name colours her voice with a soft smile. Silently, he begins to plot new ways of winning her affections, diffuse plans about flowers swirling in his mind. He would prefer she come to him willingly, but he already knows that Ullrae will be his wife; where else would she go, once Athelstan dies? She has no home, no family, and by her own admission this man scorned her love, leaving her adrift in the world until she came here; found a new home with his crippled uncle. Ordred smirks. Yes, Ullrae will make him a good wife, bear him strong sons…

 

* * *

 

One of Radagasts’ bird friends finds him near the river Entwade, a small thrush, though at first he does not recognise the chirping ball of feathers as a messenger. It’s not until he’s swatted it away four times, growling in annoyance at it that he remembers the wizard’s promise of aid. With a sigh, Beorn lets the small bird land on his shoulder. The thrush chirps in ways he would almost swear are trying to be words, and he wonders why the daft old wizard couldn’t have used an _understandable_ messenger. He might even have welcomed one of the many hedgehogs Radagast is so fond of; at least their faces are surprisingly expressive, even capable of participating in games of 'Masks and guesses'. He growls at the small thing. The thrush chirps again. He would swear that it is laughing at him.

With a scowl, Beorn moves on, intending to follow the Snowbourn to Edoras, heading into what the Rohirrim have named the Westfold. There is good land here, even if there are far too many people for his taste, but at least he speaks their tongue to some degree – or rather, these descendants of Tirwald’s Northmen speak _his_. Asking about a tall woman with golden eyes, however, gives him no answers. She would not choose to live in a place like Edoras, anyway, he thinks. Ullrae does not do well with crowds, he knows, from the few times they made it to the nearest Elven village to his home – a three- or four-day journey – to trade medicinal plants and plant dyes for the few metal items he can’t make himself. The Elves, of course, do not work metal either, but they trade with the Dwarrow beyond the Forest, and that race has always known how to make quality metalwork, Beorn knows, even if he doesn’t like them.

 

* * *

 

 

On his last night, you carry Athelstan outside when he asks, holding him like he is a small child as you tell him stories about the stars; the legends your mother once told you, about the Great Hunter, the Warrior, the Mother and Child – all the stories you can think of. Athelstan is afraid, you know, so you tell him about the Hunt Eternal, explain to him how the spirits of the past are all around you, in the earth, and the water and the animals. You talk about your family, waiting to play with you once more; the wind in the grass. It is not his faith, as his gods are not your gods, but you think he finds a small comfort in the thought. You speak until the sun rises, catching in the tears on your cheeks; knowing that you have been talking to an empty shell for hours.

 

* * *

 

 

Leaving Edoras, he keeps heading west. Somehow, he knows that she would have stayed in this land, instead of heading further south to the Stoningland. These people speak her tongue, whereas those further south speak something like Elvish, he thinks, and Ullrae never liked that language, claiming it sat wrongly on her tongue.

 

* * *

 

 

“You have to stay for the funeral,” Ordred says, his voice as hard as his face, though he has cried no tears for Athelstan, “show my uncle that honour; if you were truly his friend, you will do it.” You scowl, but you know he’s right. Even if it is only to appease your own heart, you have to stay; have to give Athelstan the proper farewell he has earned through a decade of life together.

 

* * *

 

 

The thrush leaves him for part of the day, but usually finds him around evening, ensuring that he will move in the right direction in the morning. When he tries to head south, towards the White Mountains – Ullrae’s Pride was mountain-based, it would be familiar life to her – the thrush objects, pecking his cheek. With a low growl, Beorn turns north, wondering at the amount of trust he is placing in such a small bird – and Radagast, of course.

 

* * *

 

 

You dig the grave yourself, while Ordred rides to his mother’s house, spreading the news on the way. You prepare some food, though you know it is custom to bring food to a house in mourning, so you do not make a lot. You wonder if Gyda will come, or if her brother will keep her away, wishing you could speak to her without him hovering, tell her that Athelstan did love her, in his own way, tell her that if she needs it, you will find a way to help Wilrun for her father’s sake.

Athelstan’s body has been wrapped in a linen shroud, keeping away the flies that have already begun to swarm around the slowly decaying meat. You can smell it; a smell you had grown accustomed to in the Stronghold, and the first time you catch a whiff of it you’re sick behind the barn. When you stop shaking, stop listening for Orcs as your heart hammers wildly, you return to your task.

 

 

That night, you feel the first stirrings of dread, embers catching fire in your skin. You panic.

 


	6. Life and Death

Somehow, the small bird’s insistence gives him hope, forces him onwards, his long strides eating up the miles as he walks through the autumn weather; it is still sunny, but the nights are beginning to chill. Beorn is glad of his other skin when night falls, the fur keeping him pleasantly warm and protected from the wind that cries across the plains, bringing with it the first nip of winter.

 

* * *

 

Running.

As you flee, your lynx body has never run faster, and you don’t care about possible pursuit, don’t care about being spotted, you simply need to be somewhere you won’t be found by a Man when it comes at last, when the fire takes over, burning away all reason with furious need. You feel desperation licking at your heels, knowing Ordred will be back soon, along with his parents and siblings. You curse your biology, but there is no way you can explain to Athelstan’s family why you’re crying out in the barn, why you’re begging for your mate to quench the fire, why you’re covered in bruises. At best, they’ll think you’re insane, but at worst… at worst, Ordred will get his wish. You do not think you could survive that, not when you return to your right mind to find that you’ve mated with him because he was the only one available. Even Men might be affected by the scent of a female in heat, or simply look for their own pleasures. You have not had cause to test it. Athelstan was away for war the first time, but he kindly went to visit his sister the second time… you do not think Ordred will show you the same kindness, remembering his roving eyes and covetous gaze.

Even mated females are weak afterwards, relying on the care of their mate… It is a lesson your mother told you, her eyes pained with old sorrow as she spoke of her sister, set upon by Men, because she had strayed without care and used until she had no more to give, then left for dead. ‘ _You need your mate to care for you, or you need to make arrangements for your own care’_ , she said, and it was a lesson that stuck, having watched Lillia work herself bloody in the throes of what is now coming for you, dreading the agony even though you have gone through it before, _survived_ before… but that was with Beorn, or at home on the farm, a small voice in the back of your head worries, with ready access to food or even just water. You snarl at the voice, your tail swishing as you put on another burst of speed towards the dark blur on the horizon.

Fear keeps you moving, keeps you running, a different fear than the last time you ran for your life, but no less potent, your lungs heaving in air as you push your paws to go faster, further, _faster_. You have to get far enough away that no one will find you, will force you into a bond you would not want if you could choose. There are reasons for mating in non-heat years, for learning, and building, and _trusting_ , even for _love_ – before there are cubs to tend and raise.

 

As you run, the embers light, consuming your flesh with more and more fire, until you feel like you are ablaze with it. You keep running, pushing away the mindless need with boundless fear. The trees beckon.

 

In the coolness of ‘haunted’ Fangorn, you surrender to yourself, feeling a wry amusement that your screams will add to the tales of the ‘evil’ trees if anyone hears you. They will not dare investigate, even if they do.

 

* * *

 

 

Beorn almost doesn’t believe it when he catches her scent, her territory marked around the boundary of a small farmstead; the smell is a little stale, but unmistakably _Ullrae_. He’d know her anywhere, even though it has been so long since the last time he smelled it. His heart beats faster, as he sets off in a run, loping with long strides towards the farm.

“ _Ullrae_!” he calls, his voice hoarse with emotion. Ullrae does not appear. Instead, one of the straw-haired Men appears in the doorway. Beorn sniffs. He does not like the scent of this man – _is this Ullrae’s friend? Her mate?_ – who picks up an axe before he steps any closer. Beorn smirks, wondering if the Man thinks himself a threat. The thrush chirps from its perch in his wild mane, scolding him for jostling it with his run. Beorn chuckles at the small bird, before focusing on the man with the axe. He is young, and looks strong – for a Man, at least. Behind him, an older woman appears. The resemblance is clear: his mother, most likely.

“Who are you?” the young man asks, staring suspiciously at Beorn’s smile. Beorn smiles wider, breathing in the scent of unease wafting from the man. _Good_. He does not smell like Ullrae; even if he did, Beorn isn’t sure he would have been any less intimidating. In fact, he might have been more so. He wants _answers_ , and he wants them _now_.

“Beorn is my name,” he replies, nodding. The man seems startled, but then his face closes off in anger. Scenting the air, he does not think Ullrae is still here, but Beorn has to ask; he is _so_ close, he can almost feel her, safe in his arms where she _belongs_. “I am looking for the woman Ullrae. Golden eyes and brown hair, about this tall,” he indicates; Ullrae is a little shorter than him, “sharp features.” The older woman opens her mouth, but the young man pushes her back inside the house before she can speak.

“Aye, she was here,” he says, darkly, “she’s dead. We buried her yesterday, by the pasture.” Beorn can’t speak, turning woodenly to the plot of upturned earth the Man indicates. He feels nearly paralyzed. “Now get you gone, tall one, there’s nothing for you here.”

Moving slowly, Beorn walks towards the new grave, falling to his knees beside the dirt. The thrush chirps, but he pays no attention to the tugging of its feet in his hair. Ullrae… her scent is here, faint, but he can’t deny that it is fresher here than at the borders of the farm where he first found it. Fresher… and mixed with the scent of death, the sweet decay of meat.

He is too late. He has not kept her safe, protected his _mate_ … again.

Burying his fingers in damp soil, Beorn begins to sing softly. It is an old mourning song, learned many years ago, and he barely remembers the words as his tears water the earth around his clenched fists.

 

 _In the grasslands rivers flow_  
In the mountains Walkers roam  
Hear my song of sorrow, mourning;  
for now I Walk through life alone.

 _She joined the Hunt Eternal_  
forever wild she will run  
her kin her welcome gladly  
as they play in the rays of the sun

 _I walk the world on my own_  
only silence meets my roar   
Until we join once again  
and, as spirits, spread wings to soar.

“ULLRAE!!” her name is a roar; the bear’s roar of utter agony. There is no response; the thrush has flown away, though Beorn does not realise, staring numbly at her grave.

 

Beorn does not move until the last rays of the sun has long-since set. He knows at least one Man is watching, but he does not turn to see if it is the woman or the man, sees nothing but the path north as he removes his clothes, leaving them in a pile on the ground. Behind him, someone shrieks, but Beorn does not care, simply begins walking, naked, as his heart is torn apart, shredded by the vicious teeth of separation; separation so painful he does not know how he keeps walking. He believes he will find her once more, find her in the Hunt when he dies, but it is little comfort, one thought screaming in his head. Every step he takes, it resounds in his mind, breaks another little piece of his heart.

_I am the last Walker._

He though so before, but he’s had thirty years of peace from that fact, and now… now he is alone once more, and he knows that this time… this time he will fight for vengeance alone, no longer caring whether he survives his hunt for the Orcs who destroyed his people.

 

* * *

 

 

“Why did you tell him she died?” Mildwyn frowns at her son. She has only met Ullrae a few times, and she is worried about what happened to her, why she has left so suddenly, leaving all her clothes and things behind. _If that man knows Ullrae, maybe he’d be willing to help search for her?_ Folcwine had offered to stay and help, but she’d convinced her husband to return to Aldburg; the inn had been left in the care of less experienced hands for several days already.

“She will be my wife, mother,” Ordred replies, smiling. Mildwyn does not like that smile; it is too dark for her son. “When she returns, I will make her mine; whoever that man was, he will not come back, will not try to take her away.”

Mildwyn shakes her head. Ordred seems so certain of his future, but Athelstan said Ullrae did not want him; he wouldn’t… _force her… right?_ Walking to the window, she looks out at the giant man who is crumbled by her brother’s grave; Mildwyn recognizes the motion of his shoulders as sobs. She cannot hear him, but there is no mistaking the grief in the lines of his body. Ordred is wrong to trick him so, she knows, the sight of such a powerful man brought low tearing at her mother’s heart, even if she doesn’t know him at all. It is clear that Ullrae was important to him; he has that same look as she did, something unusual and a bit animalistic – _perhaps she is his kin?_ Making a swift decision, Mildwyn moves to the doorway, intending _what_ she doesn’t know, but Ordred blocks her path easily. Looking over his shoulder, she watches the man undress, her mouth falling open at the sight. Ordred turns, and she pushes past him in his distraction, but he pulls her back into the house with a violent tug that makes her cry out in surprised pain at the strength of his grip.

“Stay here, mother,” he commands harshly, before ducking out of the small farmhouse. Mildwyn stares after him, heart racing. She wishes she had returned to Aldburg with her husband. This man… is not like the son she raised.

 

* * *

 

 

The bear moves among the trees, the Man little more than a ball of red-hot agony in the back of his brain. It doesn’t matter; the bear simply moves on, instinct guiding him towards his enemies. The bear does not think, it only knows that its mate is gone, and with her any hope of cubs – of a future. There is only vengeance left, only the siren-call of blood to be spilled, death to be dealt – and found.

 

* * *

 

 

You feel weaker than ever before when you come back to yourself; unable to move. You know you must, know you have to get up, get _moving_. Unless you wish to die here, you need food, but you don’t care. Grief envelops you as you lie in the mulch, too tired even to whimper, almost too dried out to weep. Athelstan will have been buried by now, you know, and you had not been there to witness it, had left before anyone came to the house. You wonder briefly what Mildwyn and Gyda will think to find you gone, but the thought disappears into a hazy doze. For a long time, you simply lie there, listening to the trees overhead, the sounds of animals uncaring that you are dying beneath the branches. You have stopped screaming; peace is once more restored in the forest and slowly the sound of a trilling bird fills your ears. You close your eyes, feeling the calm of the green world around seep into your bones.

 

* * *

 

The thrush is back, Beorn realises absentmindedly, and because he’s become so used to following the chirpy little thing the bear turns away from his straight north course, turns away from the straight path to vengeance and death and follows the bouncy ball of feathers as it hops from branch to branch, leading him to a small clearing.

Leaves cover the body, dirt streaks her skin; she blends in so well he’s almost stepping on her before he sees the naked woman. Nosing her neck, the bear whines, knowing that she is important, but the Man does not care to make sense of what he sees, what he feels, content to sit in his heart-ache and replay her face in a million lights and moods. The bear huffs, nosing cool skin again. The woman whimpers, but her eyes do not open. Lying down beside her, Beorn manages to grab her arm in his teeth, rolling over to pull her onto his back. Her wrist snaps, which makes him wince, but the woman does not even cry out at the pain. He walks, slowly, letting his nose lead him to water as he roars at the part of him that belongs in human skin.

They have to act fast; together, if there’s to be any hope at all.

 

* * *

 

 

Beorn has a weight on his back. That is odd. It’s his first coherent thought in a long time; it’s odd that his bear side is carrying something; bears do not usually carry things on their backs, except sometimes their cubs. When the scent hits him, he thinks it is no more than a memory; it is Ullrae’s scent, mixed with something indescribably delicious that makes his blood thrum wit recognition, but overlaid with a discordant sweet smell of approaching death. He shudders in revulsion. The thing on his back makes a sound, halfway between a moan and a whimper. Beorn freezes, staring into the stream he has reached as full consciousness slams back into him, two sides re-joining to form a whole, staring into the reflection in the water.

The face is achingly familiar beneath the dirt and the bloody trail of a split eyebrow that has already grown back together.

“Ullrae…” he whispers, changing back to his human shape before he is even aware of making the choice, laying her down on her back and looking at her battered form. Beorn whines low in his throat, pulling her up against his chest, frowning at the coolness of her skin. Cupping his hands in the clear stream, he brings them to her lips, whimpering when the water simply trickles into her mouth and back out, trailing down her chin. Kneeling on the ground, he shifts her, turning her back against his chest and hissing as her cold skin touches his warmth. In desperation, he pulls her up higher, lifting her into his lap and off the damp leaves, tilting her head back onto his shoulder and tries again, rubbing her throat to make her swallow reflexively. “Ullrae, please,” he whispers brokenly, hardly daring to believe this isn’t simply an exceedingly vivid dream soon-to-become the kind of nightmare where he can’t save her, having to watch her die in his arms. “Please, my love, you have to drink.” He needs to hunt something for her, but he doesn’t dare leave her alone; she’s too cold. If she was a lynx, he might trust to her fur to keep her warm, but he doesn’t know how to make her change shapes unconsciously; an oversight after twenty years of cohabitation. In desperation, he tries stroking the pressure points that would encourage his own shift, but nothing happens. Either it doesn’t work on her kind or she’s simply too weak.

Cupping his hands once more, he manages to get her to swallow another mouthful of water. She whimpers, huddling into his warmth. “Can you shift for me, wild thing?” he murmurs, but she doesn’t respond. Burying his face in her neck, drawing in her scent, Beorn’s tears fall onto her bruised flesh, streaking trails in the dirt that covers her. He would wash her, but the stream is icy, and she is already too cold, too pale, too _still._

She needs food, but she needs to be warm before he can leave her… Beorn has an idea; it’s crazy, but it just might work. He doesn’t stop to think about it, using his teeth to score his wrist lengthwise, pressing the bloody wound against her lips. A moment passes, his other arm wraps around her, his fingers stroking her throat, trying to coax her to swallow his blood. Ullrae swallows once. Her tongue moves lightly over his skin, pleasingly rough as she laps up his blood weakly. This isn’t how mates are supposed to care for each other, he knows, but still feels a wild part of him _sing_ with a combination of male pride and lust that he is caring for his mate, caring for her needs, giving her sustenance with – after a fashion – his own hands. Beorn smiles wryly. Ullrae swallows compulsively, sucking lightly. A distant part of him feels relieved she isn’t so far gone she would try to bite off his hand, or tear open his veins further. She only needs enough to spark her own survival instincts, get her body back on track.

“Be…orn…?” she whispers faintly, her head falling back against his shoulder once more. She is trembling.

“Hush now, wild thing,” he murmurs against her temple, bringing his wrist back to her mouth, watching his blood dribble between her chapped lips, watches her swallow the potent red fluid. He knows when she falls asleep, true sleep; the kind of nap she always needed after her heats – Beorn knows what has happened; what is only just finished happening. He can smell it on her skin, feel the answering stirring in his own loins, in his own blood. As much as he hurt her by staying away when she was in heat, he always spent those three days in a haze of lust himself, the smell of her more than potent enough to make him empty into his own fist, even when she was safely locked in the barn, far away from him and his base urges. He does not think he ever told her that he spent those three days locked up in the house himself, fighting the need to go to her, listening to her cries as penance.

As he licks the last drops of blood from his wrist, watching the small cut clot, his lust is overridden by his concern for her, his need to care for her; it’s a deep imperative, even if he rationally knows that she is not carrying a cub – his _or_ anyone else’s. Shifting into his bear-form, he rumbles happily when she snuggles against him, wrapping his strong limbs around her to keep her warm. The bear watches her sleep, his eyes roving over her features again and again as he lets the sound of her breathing fill his ears.

 

* * *

 

 

It is hours later when she stirs, his blood crusted in the corner of her mouth as she stares blearily up at him, confusion in her golden eyes. She blinks.

“Be…orn?” she asks again, lifting her hand weakly to stroke his face, wincing slightly. Beorn feels a little guilty, remembering the way he sprained her wrist when the bear picked her up. He huffs, licking her cheek in apology as he rolls them, getting to his feet. When she makes to move, he growls at her to be still, knowing she can’t understand the words, but she will recognise the command. Ullrae crumbles back to the ground, making him wish he hadn’t left his clothes at what he had thought was her grave. Feeling a moment of complete panic at the memory of the freshly turned earth, he lopes back to her, licking her face again. Ullrae smiles weakly. The smell of death no longer lingers on her skin; she smells of _him_ , now, smells like she is _his_. Satisfied, he gives her another lick before moving off among the trees, his nose scenting the air. She needs meat, and plenty of it.

 

* * *

 

You fall asleep once more, curled up in a small ball to keep the warmth Beorn has given you, your mind far too tired to make sense of hows or whys, checking out with the swift and silent steps of a lynx on the prowl.

You wake at the sound of a thump, something hitting the leaf mulch in front of your face with enough force to waft a leaf onto your nose. You sneeze, opening your eyes to see the carcass of a freshly killed deer in front of you, the meat still steaming.

You pounce.

It’s bloody and messy; you’re tearing strips of meat off the bones with your fingers and it’s _glorious_. When the first bites hit your stomach, you growl at the bear who has wisely retreated to the other side of the clearing, watching you eat with a smug satisfied air. Growling, you change skins, your sharper teeth and claws making greater inroads in the kill until you’ve gorged yourself on all the best pieces, filled the emptiness of your belly. Looking up, you catch sight of _Beorn_ , truly registering his presence for the first time. You stare. His muzzle is bloody, something you know he dislikes, and you don’t even think before loping towards him, cleaning him with your tongue before you set to cleaning yourself, yawning widely. Beorn huffs at you; an amused sound, passing closely by you as he moves to the leftovers, eating what he wants and dragging the bare bones off into the underbrush to bury somewhere. You turn to the fresh stream, lapping greedily. Feeling pleasantly full, you change back, washing the parts of your human skin that are not raw and tender to the touch. You hiss loudly when you try to sit in the stream, the chilly water running red as you clean off the blood you have spilled over the past three days. You know you have scratched yourself bloody, feel the throbbing ache in your most abused flesh, but the coolness of the water numbs the pain a little.

“Ullrae,” Beorn whispers, making you look up at him. He reaches for you, seeming unsure all of a sudden and making you feel unaccustomedly shy about being naked. Looking down, you feel tears pressing, weeping for Athelstan and a little for yourself. Beorn’s arms wrap around you, pulling you from the icy stream and carefully wiping off the water with mullein leaves as he cradles you on his lap. “Spirits help me, Ullrae,” he whispers, and you can feel him tremble against you. At first you think he is chilled by the water, but the broken sound of pain he utters when you try to shift off him, combined with the way his arms tighten around you, convince you to stay were you are. You’re pressed against his chest, feeling safe and cared for as his face hides in your hair, his shoulders shaking with hard sobs; filled with a desperation you wish you could heal. You hide your own tears against his warm skin, bury your nose against the side of his neck, the soft and bristly hair on his furry jaw warming your face. A strange contentment fills you, dozing off as you let his familiar scent comfort you.

“Beorn?” you ask him, when your tears have stilled. His face is still buried in your hair, but he is no longer sobbing. His fingers press into your thigh.

“I thought you were dead,” he admits, crushing you tightly against him with a whimper. You reach out to stroke his arm, snuggling into his embrace. “I found your farm, and… and the Man told me you were dead, showed me your grave.” You stiffen, a snarl escaping you. _Ordred!_ “And then I found you… Ullrae…” he can’t seem to say it, though you know what he means: _you nearly died_.

“I am here,” you whisper, your voice still hoarse from screaming. Beorn makes a wounded noise deep in his throat, his arms tightening around you. Turning forcefully, making him loosen his grip, you move to straddle him, keeping your weight on your knees. Pressing his head against your breast, you place your hand over his other ear so all he will hear is your heartbeat; strong and steady. Beorn’s arms are tight around your back, and you feel tears sliding down your skin, sliding down your own face too. You curl yourself around him, offering comfort the best you can.

“Don’t ever leave me,” he mutters, pressing his lips into the skin above your heart. “Never leave me,” he begs brokenly. It tears your heart apart to hear him sound like that, so far from his usual quiet rumble; his deep voice contorted with pain.

“What… what are you saying, Beorn?” you whisper, pulling on his long mane to get him to look up at your face. Your heart beats wildly, hope taking wing in a flutter of pure love as you stare down into his eyes; the colour of _uisge_ and dark with emotion you don’t dare name. You want to kiss him, kiss away the pain he feels, licking your dry lips as you watch emotion swirl in the amber depths.

“I don’t want to live without you,” he says, stroking your cheek. You close your eyes, leaning into his touch with a soft purr, “I love you, my wild thing, I have _always_ loved you; even when I was too stubborn to see it.” You want to believe him; you _do_ … but you can’t. Your eyes snap open as you draw back, pull away from his large palm.

“What about Berveig?” you whisper, because you know the spectre that stands between you must be acknowledged, but hating that you’ve put sorrow into his gaze for even a moment as you watch the shadow pass across his eyes. “What about your son?” You can see him again, a small ball of dark brown fur looking up at you with blue eyes; you wonder suddenly if your own cub would look like that, if Beorn sired him. You stiffen, pushing the image out of your mind, not wanting to remember the small corpse Azog flung at you when he had had his fun.

“Berveig… I did love her,” he admits, his grip tightening around you when you try to move away. “And I am sad for her fate, the fate of our son… but she never stirred me to half the feeling the thought of losing you has done,” he whispers, pulling you back to him. You can hear the truth, the broken jagged edges of pain bleeding into his voice.

“Why did you never come looking for me?” you ask, leaving his confession hanging in the air between you. If he feels this way… why did he let you go? “It’s been more than nine summers since I last saw you,” you murmur sadly.

“Nine?” he asks, looking surprised. You frown, nodding; it’s been nearly ten, in fact. Beorn chuckles, getting to his feet slowly, keeping hold of you as he helps you find your own feet. “I was stubborn.” You smile; Beorn certainly is that. Your hands rest lightly on his chest, as you look up at him and wait for something to happen, break the tension thrumming between you. You open your mouth to speak, but Beorn continues quietly, “I spent a long time as a bear; enough time that I nearly forgot how to be a man. I was… lost.” You stare at him, abruptly frightened of what might have happened; once a Walker forgets how to Walk, they become the animal, in truth; it is the way of elders seeking death, seeking a natural end to a long life. Your fingers grip him tightly, a cry of fear spilling from your lips; you had not thought he would feel so, not after reading your letter. Beorn hushes you gently, his warm hand running down your back as you press your face into his chest. “My life was nothing but killing orcs and missing you. It is not the life I want,” he whispers, making you look up at him, hopeful but still a little scared. Dipping his head slightly, Beorn brushes a kiss across your nose. You wrinkle it in response, wanting more than that, wanting reassurance. Turning your face back to press into his warm skin, you breathe in the smell of him. “I want you, I want your love, if you’ll give it to me,” you mewl lightly, tilting your head up. Beorn chuckles, rubbing his nose against yours, “One day, I want your cubs, if we can, but if we cannot, I would still rather live my life with you than alone.” You tighten your hold at that, seeing again a small black-and-brown bear cub before your eyes. You’ve never dared hope he would want to… but now you do, and the feeling is nearly overwhelming.

“Are you sure?” you ask, when he presses his lips against yours in the softest of kisses.

“I love you, Ullrae Léonasdottir,” he murmurs, deepening the kiss. “Mate with me, make me yours as much as you are mine.” His hands press you closer, let you feel him press against you, even if he is careful not to use too much force on your still-tender skin. The bruises will take days to heal, even if shifting will help you mend quicker. You’re hungry again, though not only for food.

“My Beorn…!” you growl possessively, winding your fingers through his hair and pulling him back to your mouth, “I love you…mate.” With a joyously wild cry, he steals another kiss from your lips, grinning happily as his hands stroking your skin, relighting a few embers of desire despite your exhaustion. Attacking him with a frenzy of kisses, you still wince when your abused flesh rubs against his hard body. Beorn slows down, stroking lightly across your skin, careful with your bruises. You growl at his self-control, even though part of you knows that you are too weak still for more than a few kisses.

“Come home, ferhþlufe[1],” he murmurs against your lips.

“Have to return,” you reply, knowing you won’t be able to enjoy the new life you see before you if you do not let go of the one you have shared with Athelstan. “Have to say goodbye.” Beorn frowns unhappily, but he nods slowly.

“I’m coming with you,” he growls, shifting once more. You smile. Noting a few new scars in the fur on his face you had not spotted earlier, you trace one with your lips. The bear yips, an amused sound you’ve missed more than you realised. Kissing him once more, you take a step back, suddenly swaying with fatigue; unsure if you’ve yet regained the strength to shift, to _move_ even. Before you, the massive black bear stands, huffing gently at you once, before moving to you and lying down on the leaves beside you.

“I may have overdone it a little, héahlufan[2],” you admit cheekily, and the bear huffs the equivalent of a laugh at the memory of your first hunt. You smile, running your fingers through his shaggy fur. Beorn nudges you lightly, nosing at your side. With a groan and a hiss of soreness, you climb onto his back, surrendering to his strength once more. This is your place, with your bear to keep you safe from the darkness without… and within.

Burying your face against his neck, you breathe deeply, enjoying the smell that is at once _wild_ and _home_. You can feel the smugness radiating off him as he sets off at a smooth ground-eating pace. You try to stay awake, but you drift off to sleep as the large bear carries you away, moving easily through the forest while you rest.

 

 

 

[1] Heartfelt love

[2] Great love

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song was written by me, based on [Mourning Song](https://supergiantgames.bandcamp.com/track/mourning-song)


	7. Back to the Farm

“Athelstan!” you cry out, waking yourself up, looking around wildly.

“Ullrae?” Beorn asks quietly, carefully reaching for you, pulling you close as the tears come again. “Who is Athelstan?” he murmurs.

“Farmer,” you whisper, weeping into his chest. Beorn growls darkly. You look up at him, confused by the anger in his eyes.

“I’m going to kill him,” he hisses, looking south. You reach up, cupping his face to bring it back to you.

“You can’t kill my Athelstan,” you growl, before snuggling into his chest again. “My Athelstan is dead.” Beorn’s arms wrap around you, hushing you gently as he rocks you, waiting for the spell of grief to pass.

“It was his grave?” he asks. You nod, tracing light patterns into the skin of his chest, resting your palm above his heart.

“I was surprised by the needing,” you admit sadly, brushing a kiss against his throat. “I didn’t have time to bury him, or bring anything with me.”

“Then who was the Man I spoke to?” Beorn frowns. You rub your face against his neck, comforted by the smell of him.

“Ordred,” you scowl, hissing out the name like a curse. “He wants me. He is… a bad Man.” Beorn growls, clutching you tightly, possessively. You mewl into his neck, rubbing your nose against his throat.

“Do you want me to go in your place?” he asks, pushing you away slightly so he can study your face. You hesitate. You left behind everything when you fled, and part of you worries that Ordred will have taken out his anger at your departure on your things. You’d like to have a keepsake of Athelstan’s, though the thought of seeing Ordred again fills you with echoes of dread. On the other hand, you don’t really want to be alone, either, still feeling the need to stay close to your mate, and Beorn wouldn’t know what to take anyway. You sigh, knowing that you have to go back to the farm where, once, you had been happy. “I won’t let anyone hurt you,” Beorn swears, cupping your face and kissing you gently. You nod decisively, steeling yourself.

 

Shifting, you lead the way, detouring to hunt down a proper meal. You’re still weakened, but getting stronger. Pushing away the needing was not healthy, Beorn told you, though he understands why you did it, even if it nearly killed you; would have killed you if he’d been much slower or further away. It haunts his dreams at night, you know, hearing him whimper at you to wake up, waking himself up often to check on your breathing, feel the beat of your heart against his skin. You feel content to once more spend each night in his arms, though you remain in your animal skins to ward off the chill of the night.

 

* * *

 

Seeing the farm again is peculiar. You almost expect Athelstan to hobble out the door, greeting you with a smile like he always did when you returned from a successful hunt. Beside you, Beorn sniffs the air. You can smell blood, faint, but fresh. Worried, you set off for the house, remaining in your lynx body; all senses on high alert. There is only one person inside; it is not Ordred. Shouldering the door open – Athelstan made a clever latch you can undo with your paw – you push inside. Someone whimpers. Your eyes widen. Behind you, Beorn growls.

“Mildwyn!” you cry, falling to your knees beside her. Her right eye is swollen shut, but the other one focuses blearily on you. “Beorn, get water!” Mildwyn reaches for you, catching a lock of your brown hair. The door clatters against the frame behind you.

“Ullr…” she wheezes. You run your hands frantically over her body, looking for other injuries. Beorn dips a cup in the bucket of fresh water, offering Milwyn a drink. She gulps it thirstily. “Ullrae?” she asks wonderingly, as she reaches for your face again. “You came… back.” Looking behind you, her good eye widens, taking in Beorn who has turned to light the hearth, the flickering flames illuminating his nakedness and turning his skin bronze. You lick your lips, a frisson of desire curling low in your belly. “He… he found you?” Mildwyn say, and you realise she must have seen Beorn before when he came to the farm. You nod. You hadn’t expected her to still be here, being an innkeeper’s wife is a busy life, even if Aldburg is not as large as Edoras.

“Who is she?” Beorn asks.

“My Athelstan’s sister,” you reply, helping Mildwyn sip slowly. Wetting a rag, you carefully wipe her face, making her hiss in pain. “Who did this to you, Mildwyn?” you whisper, horrified that anyone would hurt someone as kind and gentle as Mildwyn.

“Ordred,” she mutters, and you catch the fright in her eyes when Beorn’s snarl rips through the silence of the kitchen. A log cracks in the hearth.

“This is Beorn,” you say, smiling up at him. “My husband.” You catch the pleased look on his face at the introduction, smiling as you rise and press a kiss to his shoulder.

“Her leg is broken,” Beorn says quietly, gesturing at Mildwyn’s skirt. He easily lifts her, placing her on the table and lifts her skirt to show you. Milwyn stares at him, dumbstruck. You try not to chuckle at the look on her face. A Man would have at least asked first, you know. “We need to set her leg,” he rumbles. “Go find some bandages and something we can use for a splint, my wild thing.” He runs his large palm up Mildwyn’s leg, pulling down her hose. Mildwyn gasps. So do you, if not for the same reason. Mildwyn is weeping in pain, while you’re staring at her leg in disbelief that a son could hurt his mother so badly. Whirling, you turn to the small chest of medicines you’ve carefully maintained in the years you’ve lived here. Mildwyn screams when the bone snaps back in place, but Beorn hushes her calmly, rumbling soothingly like she’s one of his dogs. You hide a smile. Handing him wooden slats to use for splinting, you begin to wrap Mildwyn’s broken leg.

“Why are you both… naked?” Mildwyn finally asks, blushing furiously, when you’re done with the bandages. You look up, catching her staring at you, determined not to look anywhere but your face, even as you see her dart a glance at Beorn’s powerful build. You smile, proud of your strong mate. Beorn nods at you; you know the woman better – telling her is your choice.

“Because we didn’t have any clothes. We are Gengende, Mildwyn,” you say, shifting and rubbing your body along Beorn’s legs once before shifting back. Mildwyn screams.

“She’s fainted,” Beorn points out, huffing a laugh. You aren’t really surprised, Mildwyn is a down-to-earth type of person, who has little time for fairy stories, and she was bound to be scared of a giant cat – even though the bear would have been worse – standing in the kitchen. Even Athelstan was a little scared the first time you shifted, though his curiosity and fascination with seeing a legend before him overrode the fear almost immediately. You nod, swaying lightly; shifting that quickly that often takes a lot of energy. Beorn catches you easily, keeping you steady on your feet with a slight frown on his face.

“Make some food, will you. I’ll go see if I can find a pair of pants for you.” You mumble, heading into your bedroom – the farm isn’t really large enough for several bedrooms, but Athelstan was weird about you sleeping in his bed, so you helped each other build the small addition when it became clear that you were staying. Picking up a shift for yourself, you head into Athelstan’s room, feeling weepy at the lingering smell of him that hangs in the few spare clothes he possessed. Ordred – or maybe Mildwyn – has begun sorting out the clothes; Athelstan’s trousers are good only for an amputee, but the shirts will probably fit Ordred if some fabric is added in the back. Rohirrim are thrifty people; it is not unlikely that Mildwyn knows of someone who’d be pleased to receive the trousers, you think, picking up a pair.

* * *

 

When you return to the kitchen, there’s a pail of steaming water waiting for you, and Beorn is gone. Mildwyn stares at you. Beorn apparently lifted her off the table and into a chair – or she managed to move herself – and set three bowls on the sand-scrubbed surface.

“Did he beat you for running away?” she whispers, frightened, when you step back into the light. You laugh throatily. Looking down at your skin – the bruises have faded some, but you can still see some discoloration in places – you dunk a washrag in the water, lathering up the cloth with a small piece of soap.

“No, Mildwyn, it is not in his nature to commit violence against a female,” you say, amused that the thought even crossed her mind, but of course she doesn’t know anything about your kin. To you – and to Beorn – the idea is so foreign as to be preposterous.

“I did not think it was in my son’s,” Mildwyn replies, wincing, and belatedly you remember that this is Ordred’s _mother_ , “but I was wrong.” You give her a small smile, squeezing her hand for comfort.

“It’s not your fault,” you begin softly, rinsing the soap off your skin. You cleaned yourself with water while you travelled here, but it is not the same.

“Your cow does not like me.” Beorn states with an affronted growl, interrupting your conversation as he steps back into the house holding a bucket. Mildwyn shies away from him, obviously fearful. You break into helpless laughter at the expression on his face.

“Cows here do not like us, my bear,” you murmur, stretching to kiss him gently.

“Clearly an inferior breed of cow,” he mutters darkly, pouring milk into the small kettle you use for porridge. “Daft creature. Tirwald would have been appalled.” Grabbing the large pot of rolled oats, he scoops a few cups into the kettle, hanging it over the fire. “Feeling better?” he asks, tipping your face up to trace your eyebrow with his thumb. You nod. Slipping a clean shift over your head – you wish you could wash your hair, but it can wait till you’ve eaten – you hand him a lopsided pair of Athelstan’s oldest trousers. They’ll be snug, but it’s the best you can do. Beorn raises an eyebrow at you, holding up the garment.

“My brother had only one leg, Master Beorn,” Mildwyn explains quietly, leaning back in the chair. He shrugs, struggling into the clothes. You find you enjoy the way the trousers fit around his arse, though you can see him struggling with the buttons. Wrapping your arms around him in a hug from behind, you kiss his shoulder softly, sneaking a peak down his front. Beorn growls, giving up on fastening the buttons on the trousers, though he tugs them up before turning around to wrap his arms around you. You smirk, though secretly you’re pleased with the dishevelled look; it’s almost a ready-for-bed look.

“This could be better, Ullrae,” he grumbles. You give him a kiss for his troubles. He smiles against your lips.

“You only have to wear them until I can stitch in some extra fabric?” you offer, yawning lightly.

“You need rest, sweetling,” he murmurs, “and I can do my own stitching.” Turning back to the kettle, he quickly manages a nice porridge. Ladling the food into the three bowls, stirring a spoonful of honey through yours just the way you like it, he pushes one towards each of you, watching you until you begin eating. When you dig in, he rumbles happily, turning his attention to his own bowl. You know Mildwyn is staring, obviously not used to the animalistic noises you often use to communicate emotion, but she eats the porridge with good appetite, apparently less frightened of Beorn now. The thought makes you smile, knowing that he really is quite gentle unless truly riled. Even then, Mildwyn would have nothing to fear, but you don’t know if explaining how male Walkers work will help her truly understand, so you keep silent, concentrating on your food.

“Where is Ordred?” you ask, when you’ve nearly finished your bowl, your stomach growling at the food. Though you fed twice before arriving, you still feel the bite of hunger, needing to replenish your reserves of energy. Beorn pushes a mug of milk at you with a wry smile. You gulp it down thirstily, licking your lips happily. Yawning, you spoon up the last of your porridge.

“Looking for you,” Mildwyn admits, seemingly losing her appetite and pushing her bowl away. Beorn pushes it back towards her. “It would be better if you were not here when he returns. Take your things and get away before he comes back.”

“And let him beat you again?” Beorn growls, anger making his voice take on more of the bear’s timbre. Mildwyn squeaks in fright. You pat her hand gently.

“Ordred would know I had been here,” you tell her quietly, “even if only for the fact that someone cared for you.”

“I could tell him it was Gyda,” she offers, but you shake your head.

“He would only go to her next,” you worry. If he would break his own mother’s leg, who’s to say what he’d do to his late Uncle’s sweetheart and his young cousin?

“You should sleep, Ullrae,” Beorn says, when you yawn again. “You’re still not healed.” When you nod, he simply picks you up, carrying you into the small room that holds your bed. You murmur sleepily against his skin, protesting when he loosens your grip, wanting him to join you in bed. “Hush, wild thing,” he mumbles, kissing you softly, “I’ll keep watch over you and Mildwyn, don’t worry.” You nod, even if you would prefer to sleep in his arms.

 

* * *

 

 

“I feel I should warn you that I may kill your son,” Beorn says, startling the Mildwyn woman who had been staring into the fire with a far-off look on her face.

“Why?” she whispers, turning to face him; one eye is still swollen shut, blackened with bruising. Beorn gestures at her.

“Ullrae calls you kin,” he rumbled, dipping a cloth in the cool bucket of water and holding it against her eye. “Which makes you my kin. My kin does not get beaten. Not unless someone wants to be punished for it.” It is Walker logic, but more than that it is the blood of a long line of Scildere speaking. This woman is weak – only slightly stronger than a cub, to his mind – which makes him responsible for her protection, and even if she wasn’t his to care for when the bruises were made or her leg broken, he feels responsible for exacting vengeance. “It is our way,” he tries to explain, keeping his voice gentle, trying not to scare her, “unless you would rather your own mate seek vengeance for you.”

“But he is my son,” she whispers, and he can see the pain of that fact in her eyes. “I don’t know… I don’t think I know him, anymore.” She breathes in, shuddering as tears start rolling down her cheeks. “I should have gone home with my husband.” Beorn hadn’t been certain she _had_ a mate, wondering why he would leave his woman alone with a man who smelled like anger, until he remembered that humans couldn’t smell the slight scent of emotions rising from their skin. Sitting on the floor by the fire, instinctively keeping his body between Mildwyn and the door, Beorn sighed, staring into the flames.

 

“I saw you…” Mildwyn says, after long silence. “By the grave. You cried for her, for Ullrae. I wanted to tell you… but Ordred wouldn’t let me.” Beorn snarls at that, the memory of believing her dead still far too vivid in his mind, even two days after finding her on the forest floor. “I’m sorry,” she whispers, and he knows she is, guilt and sorrow surrounding her. It does not appease his anger towards her son. “I’m glad you found her… who attacked her?” she asks, making him realise that she really hadn’t known anything about them.

“Ullrae was in heat,” he says gently, “it is a dangerous time without someone to care for her. The bruises and cuts were made by her own hands, trying to claw her burning skin off. Needing is painful without a male, for her kind, but she knew if she stayed here, she would have come out of it worse, fearing what Ordred would do to her. When I found her, she was…” he swallows hard, remembering the weak sound of her heart beating, “nearly dead.”

“You saved her,” Mildwyn says, and he hears a smile in the words as she dares to pat his shoulder. The gesture makes him chuckle; she is braver than she looks, he thinks. “I’m glad. Ullrae seems… _happy_ … with you.”

“She was happy here, too,” he claims, knowing it is true. She has told him stories of Athelstan, of life here, of the troubles with a cheesemaking woman. “But I long to take her home. She wanted to come back to say proper goodbye to your brother, pack up the few things she owns here.”

“Athelstan loved her like a daughter,” Mildwyn says, “and Ordred doesn’t deserve to inherit this land; in my opinion, it should go to Wilrun when she’s grown. Take whatever Ullrae wants to keep with you. I am going to press charges against my son with the Marshal in Aldburg when I get home.”

 

* * *

 

 

The next morning – Ordred has not returned – the three of you decide to herd Athelstan’s cow to the next farm; Mildwyn will be taking one of the horses for her trip to Aldburg, and the last mare will come with you and Beorn, along with most of the chickens. Beorn has made hutches for the animals, which will be strapped to the horse, but you’ve decided to drop a few off at Gyda’s brother; Wilrun may not be old enough to inherit much from her father, but the eggs will help her grow. Other than that, however, you take only a sack of wheat and one of barley; most of it will be seed-grain for next year, as you and Beorn are more than capable of keeping yourselves fed through winter with hunting. The clothes you have made over the years, as well as a few of the things Athelstan carved, you bundle up along with your green cloak, stowing it in a small kettle. The rest has no particular attachment to you; the pots and pans will be another inheritance for Wilrun, and the clothes will be given to those who need them. Mildwyn will see to it.

 

* * *

 

The road to Aldburg isn’t long, though it is a few days’ journey; Mildwyn’s leg pains her when she rides, so you take it slow. Beorn has managed to resew some of Athelstan’s clothes; in a linen shirt and trousers – with two legs – he can pass for a Man. The roads are too busy for either one of you to walk in animal skin, but you refused to let Mildwyn travel alone, and Beorn seems to have adopted her like a stray cat needing protection, you think wryly.

“Will the Marshal take the farm from Ordred?” you ask, when you’ve left your former home behind. Mildwyn sighs.

“I will certainly try to; Wilrun is a child of the Blessing – as good as a trueborn heir – while Ordred,” you’ve noticed that she has stopped referring to him as her son, “is a nephew. Most likely, the farm will go to Gyda to hold until Wilrun can inherit it properly. We’ll see about finding someone willing to lease the land or farm it for her,” Mildwyn muses.

 

* * *

 

“Ullrae!” a little girl cries, when you reach the village a few hours into your journey, running up to you and wrapping her arms around your legs. “Auntie Mildwyn!”

“Wilrun,” you murmur, bending to set her on your hip. “Where is your mother?” Beside you, Beorn makes a small happy growl. You smile at him. “Wilrun, meet Beorn, he’s my husband,” you say, turning towards him. Wilrun stares.

“Up.” She reaches for him; you grin. Handing over the small child, you watch Beorn hold her carefully. “Up!” she cries again.

“It’s her favourite game, love, and you’re even taller than me,” you wink, laughing when he finally understands, putting Wilrun on his shoulders and rising to his full height. The little girl shrieks happily.

“Wilrun! Where have you run off to?!” a woman calls.

“Here, Gyda!” you reply, waving when she turns the corner.

“Ullrae!” she exclaims, staring at you. “You’re back!... what happened to you, Mildwyn?” she gasps, hurrying towards the three of you.

“Look, moder, I’m tall!” Wilrun crows, waving from her perch.

“My husband, Beorn,” you say, when Gyda looks startled for a moment. Beorn gives her a friendly smile.

“Ordred happened to me, Gyda,” Mildwyn sighs. “May we come in for a rest? We’ve things to discuss.”

 

* * *

 

For once, Gyda’s brother, Gram, isn’t glaring at you – you rather think it has to do with the way Beorn’s arm remains draped around you, pulling you close to rest against him, even as he tells stories to little Wilrun. You recognise the story of his human daughter Álmbera, though Beorn makes it into a fantastical tale – to these people, of course, it would be fantastical enough even by the addition of Walkers – calling her a princess rescued from evil by the great warrior bear and who eventually falls in love with a golden prince. Mildwyn does most of the speaking with the adults; she is a woman of some standing, after all, though you will go to Aldburg with her to give testimony against Ordred. She easily navigates around the whole tangle of why Beorn was looking for you, making the audience – swelled to include Gyda’s good-sister and nephews as well as the village Alderman – gasp in horror when she explains how Ordred told him you were dead. Beorn's arm tightens around you at that point, an angry growl escaping him. You turn, kissing his furry cheek softly.

“My growly bear,” you tease, making him chuckle. You wish you were home already, but you feel responsible for sorting out things the way Athelstan would have wanted. Beorn kisses your forehead.

“Well, there’s certainly a case for you, Mildwyn,” the Alderman states – you think his name is Sewine – stroking his long beard thoughtfully. He is old, but he is still spry and his mind is quicker than many who are decades younger. “As for the idea of Wilrun inheriting all of Athelstan’s estate, while there is precedent in the case of a child of the Blessing, I believe the dead at the time had no other heirs.”

“When Ordred is convicted, he won’t be able to hold the land,” you say quietly, certainly. “If he tried to take it… the rough music would play for him ere long.” Around the table, the menfolk nod slowly, and Gyda’s face tightens; the rough music came for her first husband, after he beat the child from her body. No one knows how it starts, but all people of Rohan believe it nearly a mythical beast, though you know it is simply the anger of men at violence against someone weaker. You cannot call the rough music, but when it comes, it cannot be stopped either, and anyone who hears it pass by their home would do best to stay abed and have heard nothing come morning if they do not join the march themselves. A small satisfied growl escaped you at the thought; you’d never told her, but you had marched for Gyda’s husband – you don’t think even her brother ever knew that, and you’re not about to tell him. Beside you, Beorn does his best to look like he knows what is going on, but you know he is lost.

“Mistress Ullrae has a point,” the Alderman concedes with a nod in your direction, “but I was not speaking of Ordred.”

“Athelstan had no other children,” you object, “nor would one of Mildwyn’s come; Folcwine the younger is his fæder’s heir, and her daughters are already settled with husbands and families of their own.” Ordred was the youngest, which was why he had been eager enough to inherit a farm instead of having to work for someone else nearer to Aldburg.

“No, Athelstan had no other trueborn child,” Alderman Sewine replies, his eyes glittering with mirth, “but he did have you. I have in my possession a letter of intent to adopt, signed by Athelstan nearly four years ago; he stopped by my house on his way to the battle. Did he never speak of it?” You shake your head, feeling suddenly emotional. Beorn abruptly interrupts his story to pull you closer stroking your arm and turning your face into his neck. You breathe deeply, the smell of him comfort enough to still your tears before they fall.

“No. I knew he thought of me as a daughter, but not… not like this,” you whisper. Mildwyn squeezes your hand.

“Never-the-less, Athelstan’s foresight means the farm would have passed into your keeping, an equal share going to Wilrun upon her coming of age; to be paid in livestock or coin as you see fit.” Alderman Sewine states, looking at you. You squeeze Beorn’s hand.

“Do you want to stay, Ullrae?” he murmurs, startling you. Looking at the assembled Men, he clarifies, “Our home lies further north, beyond the golden wood, where I own a large tract of land that has belonged to my family for centuries.” It has belonged to _him_ for centuries, but of course he can’t tell a group of _Men_ that. The Eorlingas do not have the blood of Númenor of old, and they are lucky to reach the age of 60, even fewer making it all the way to 70.

“I don’t know…” you whisper. “I want to go home, Beorn, but I also want to fulfil Athelstan’s last wishes.” Beorn simply hums. In your heart of hearts, you know you couldn’t stay more than five years at the most before people, who don’t see you every day, would begin to notice that you did not age as they did, but you still long to remain here, feeling melancholy at the thought of leaving these people behind without ways to find out how they’re doing.

“We can visit,” Beorn offers, knowing the same things you know; if these Men begin talking about un-aging wild-looking people, it is only a matter of time before Orcs will hear it and figure out what you are, leading them to hunt you down as they once did.

“Can I leave my share in trust for Gyda and Wilrun?” you ask. “To be passed to Wilrun’s issue as she sees fit upon her death.”

“You do not want it?” They all seem surprised. You chuckle.

“Our home is more than 10 days journey north of here,” Beorn says quietly, “Ullrae wanted to see some of the world before we married, which was how she ended up here. Among our people, it is a right of passage, shall we say, for the man to leave his home in search of his wife. If he cannot find her, he does not know her well enough to deserve her.” He keeps a completely straight face, though you have to struggle not to laugh; Beorn has a gift for story-telling, but this is a tall tale even for him.

“I had nine years of roaming before Beorn was allowed to go after me,” you continue, looking up at him with a mischievous smile, “we age slowly. Wilrun will have grandchildren while I wll still look much the same as I do now.”

“The blood of the Shipkings?” the Alderman wonders. You shrug. Númenorians had long lives because of their diluted Elven blood; Walkers have always lived long lives – often choosing to die by becoming a true animal if they did not perish in battle or by accident.

“My younger brother would come with his wife from Edoras to help me run the farm for Wilrun,” Gyda interjects, getting you back on track. Around the table, nods of assent could be seen. You breathe a sigh of relief.

“It is agreed, then,” Alderman Sewine says, “Mistress Ullrae will need to sign an affirmation of her intent to declare her intentions, but then I believe the matter is as straightforward as sending a missive to the Marshal in Edoras, which we might prevail upon mistress Mildwyn to deliver.” Mildwyn nodded.

“I intend to journey with Mildwyn to Aldburg, to lay charge against Ordred,” you declared.

 

The rest of the afternoon is lost to writing up the paperwork and by the time you are finished it is too late to bother moving on, so you have been offered space in Gram’s barn, while Mildwyn got the children’s bed on account of her leg.

 

* * *

 

Feeling Beorn’s arms wrap around you in the middle of the night, his strong body gluing itself to your back as his legs tangle with yours is surprisingly familiar. One of his hands wrapping around the small curve of your breast is not, but you sigh and relax into his hold. The last few days he has spent the night as a bear, though you know he has not had much rest; too anxious to sleep for long.

“Beorn,” you murmur sleepily, pressing back against him. Beorn nuzzles your neck, his teeth closing lightly over the carotid artery in your neck. You hiss, tilting your head back and offering him the rest of your throat. Beorn growled, the submission pleasing him immensely; you feel it in the scent of his skin, the call of the wild echoing in your own blood. You _want_ to be taken by this strong male; it’s not mindless like the needing, but it is almost as overpowering. You whimper.

“Not tonight,” he whispers, though you can feel his desire pressing against you; somehow that’s not unfamiliar either, though he was always careful when you lived with him. You smirk.

“Soon,” you agree. You’ve no desire to explain the bruises in the morning, after all; Beorn’s new shirt leaves less to be desired than his first pair of trousers, but it is by no means well-fitting. Turning around in his arms, you trace a line from his throat down his bare chest, resting your head above his heart when he rolls onto his back.

 


End file.
